Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
“You couldn’t handle it.”
I smiled a little. “I can handle a lot more than you know.” I turned and walked away, but not before catching sight of his expression: longing, and a little amused.
I took a shower. I washed my hair. I lathered myself up. And god, it felt good.
He was right. I was gross as hell.
But I wasn’t going to let myself revel in my own misery anymore. I put on a pair of jeans and a shirt that had somehow appeared in my room. Ren leaned up against the wall next to the bar, sipping a whiskey.
“There she is,” he said. “I knew she was there, buried beneath that filthy troll.”
“Not funny. If you want me to play pool, you’d better be nice.”
He laughed and walked over to me. I tensed for a second, but when he touched my cheek, I didn’t pull away. He held me there and I suddenly felt it, what I’d been suppressing this whole time, desperately trying not to look too closely at: my desire for him, my pure, incredible, physical attraction. He’d been so close all the time, sleeping stretched out on the couch, or standing in the kitchen and cooking me meals, or making coffee, or any number of small tasks that were unnoticed, invisible. I knew that without him, I’d be even more fucked up and miserable—or straight-up dead.
I turned away, unable to handle it.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go. I want to kick your ass.”
“Easy there, girl,” he said. “I’m only here to have some fun.”
“Says the guy that’s about to lose.”
“You want to make this interesting? Every game you lose, you take off some clothes.”
“Nice try.” I smirked at him, head tilted. “You’d lose, and I’m not interested in seeing you naked. How about twenty bucks a game?”
“All right then. You’re on.”
I let him lead me out into the hall, and I followed him through the quiet house, down the steps, along another long passageway, and into a room dominated by a single pool table and a bar against the far wall. A TV mounted in the corner played sports, and I got the sense that he’d spent some time down here, maybe when I was sleeping, or probably during the long hours I’d spent hidden away in my room.
It felt good to get out of there, even if we were just a few doors down. He lost the first game, then kicked my ass three games in a row, and I got the feeling that he let me win once for my ego—and won three times for his own.
I smiled and laughed for what felt like the first time in ages.
9
Ren
Slowly, she started to come out of her shell.
It helped when Mona started stopping by. She brought paint supplies the day after I kicked Amber’s ass at pool, and it seemed to make Amber happy. I liked to sit back with some whiskey and watch her paint, which was what she did most of the time when Mona wasn’t around, and we were stuck alone in that room together. I’d watch her, not her painting, but her: the way she moved, a graceful flick of a wrist, a quick jab with a brush, the way she’d flatten her lips and glare at the canvas when she made a mistake, like it was the canvas’s fault, and not her own.
I studied her. I took a masterclass on Amber, and each day I felt like I knew her a little bit better than before.
But things were happening in the mansion that she didn’t know about. I kept it hidden from her, because if she knew how bad it was getting, she might not be able to handle it. She was a strong girl, but her scars ran deep, and she was just coming back to me.
After a few days, I found Mona in the hall, her nose buried in a book. “Oh, Ren,” she said when I called her name. “How’s Amber?”
“Good,” I said. “Actually, I was hoping you’d do me a favor. Can you sit with her while I go out for a bit?”
She frowned. “I wouldn’t mind, but—”
“Thanks. You’re the best.” I stalked off before she could object.
The place was crawling with thugs. I knew half of them from my days on the street, and the other half were the kinds of guys I wasn’t interested in: young men that thought violence was a game, and figured they’d always be the winner. Young, disposable, stupid men.
I slipped out a back door connected to the kitchens and grabbed a cab down south. I got off on Passyunk and followed that for a while until I came up to an old rundown dive bar with Eagles memorabilia in the windows from the eighties, the green faded to gray, the silver more like white. I slipped in through the front and scanned the dingy interior.