Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
“Sounded like it,” Coral adds.
Tommy stares out the window, her face so pale with her white hair up in a ponytail.
Mace rolls down the driver’s side window, hanging her head in the wind. “We can do better.”
“So much better,” Coral echoes. “You’re not going to finish the weekend a virgin.”
My stomach dips, but I keep my expression calm. “And if I do?”
“Then we’ll tattoo the Jolly Roger on our asses,” Mace coos.
I burst out laughing, Coral groaning. “Oh, you did not just commit us to that,” she whines.
I shake my head, but then I worry about what lengths they’ll go to in order to make sure they don’t have to get that tattoo. I’m not in the habit of accepting drinks I didn’t make myself, but I’ll be extra careful this weekend. For sure.
The whole way home other questions occur to me, like how will they know if I do it or not, and does oral count? And right away, an image of Hunter’s head between my legs flashes in my mind, and I roll down my window, too, for cool air.
Taking the car back to the barbershop, I hop out and toss Mace the keys, not Coral.
“Tomorrow,” they remind me.
“I’ll bring the tequila.”
They probably won’t be in bed for hours, but now, I’m tired. At least that’s what I tell myself, because Hunter’s car still isn’t in front of his house.
Closing my front door, I flip on the light and head up to my bedroom, pulling my phone off the charger and putting the one Hawke gave me back on. I restart my phone, tossing it on the bed, because I’m not anxious for a call or a text.
We’re just playing around.
He’s in a weird place, and I’m misreading what we’re doing. Just like I misread any signals I thought I was getting from Kade.
I need to stop thinking about him and just go to sleep.
I tug the rubber band out of my hair and start for the door to go get some water, but I hear a notification go off and charge back for my bed.
I’ll do a sweep of any messages. Get it over with and then get to sleep.
The notification is for Quinn’s Instagram, though. There’s nothing else. No missed calls or texts, a mixture of disappointment and relief washing over me, because no news is good news, I guess?
But he knows it’s getting late. Wouldn’t he like to see me? Or at least say goodnight?
I click to see what she posted, and a picture of Hunter appears, his head bowed as Fallon cuts his hair. I break into a smile, seeing A.J. posing next to him and making a goofy face.
He went home. That’s good. I check the time stamp, seeing the picture was posted almost two hours ago.
That’s really good. He must still be there.
I’m a little sad, though. His hair wasn’t long, but I loved it. It was always sexy-messy, and I liked feeling it between my fingers.
He’ll have to grow it back. I laugh to myself, tossing the phone back on the bed, but as soon as I look up and out my window, my heart stops.
My stomach clenches and needles prick my skin.
His room is dark, but I see her red hair, her naked back…
I narrow my gaze, stepping closer to my window, watching her hips roll on top of his bed and trying to make sense out of what’s going on.
It’s got to be Farrow.
Or one of the other guys.
They’re using Hunter’s bed.
But then he comes up, jerks Arlet’s hips into him, and rolls them both over, his hair shorter now and his profile unmistakable.
A lump lodges in my throat, and I can’t swallow.
It can’t be him. He wouldn’t do that.
Hunter
I stuff the washing machine with all my muddy gear from practice this afternoon, thankful that the pants are black, as well as the jersey. The only color on the uniforms are a few royal blue stripes around the collar and sleeves with some white trim. Easy to hide the mud stains. Dewitt had us on the schedule for practice, rain or shine, and it stormed all last night. The field was a mess, and more rain is on the way.
Not that we would’ve played well anyway, with half the team hungover from last night.
I throw in a Tide POD and start the cycle, heading back up to my room to get dressed. I glance out my window, seeing no sign of Dylan in her room.
But a distant thunder rolls across the sky, leaves fluttering against the wind as the charged air makes the hair on my arms rise.
I haven’t seen her all day.
She was asleep when I got in last night—I snuck in and checked on her when she didn’t answer her phone, just to make sure she was safe—and she hasn’t replied to texts today, other than to say she was at the library.