Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
CHARLIE:
Begging.
LARS:
Of course you are. We like to hear you beg. I slide my hand between your legs and hold your pussy open for him.
CHARLIE:
Oh my God.
LARS:
I whisper dirty things in your ear while he’s licking you. Then I shove my fingers in his hair to hold his head between your legs, keeping him there.
LARS:
Babe?
You still there? Don’t you dare leave me now.
CHARLIE:
Sorry. Back. I just had to take off my leggings.
LARS:
Are you touching yourself right now?
CHARLIE:
How can I not be? Are you telling me your dick isn’t hard?
LARS:
Rock-hard. But it’s still safely inside my pants.
CHARLIE:
Take it out. Please.
LARS:
Fuck.
CHARLIE:
Is it out?
LARS:
Yeah.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHARLOTTE
Imagine my glory at your table
AFTER MORE THAN A WEEK, I CAN SAY WITH A HIGH DEGREE OF certainty that my biological brother is not interested in reaching out to me.
The Method told me I could live with that outcome, but…it still sucks.
I’ve never been an overly optimistic person. I’m not a cynic either. I suppose I’m just a realist. I recognize there’s going to be really great things that happen and not so great things that happen. But I can’t deny I was fully entrenched in the optimism camp with this one.
I truly believed he would want to meet me.
Faith knocks on my bedroom door on Wednesday evening, catching me mid–moping session. “Are you ready for the meeting?”
“No,” I say glumly.
“Well, I don’t mean figuratively, but, like, practically, are you ready to go downstairs, or do you need to pee or something?”
I climb off my neatly made bed and walk to the desk to grab my laptop and phone. “No, I’m fine. Let’s go.”
“What’s wrong?”
“He left me on read.”
“Who?”
“Bio bro.”
“Ah. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Whatever.”
I smooth out the bottom of my white cashmere sweater. Faith always makes fun of me for how often I wear white. She has no idea how I manage to keep these things clean.
“No, it’s not fine, whatever,” she says in a firm voice, pulling me into her arms. “C’mere, Ms. Mopey.”
When I sag into her embrace, she rubs my shoulders in a comforting gesture.
“I’m sorry, babe. I know you really wanted this to work out. But just because he saw your message doesn’t mean he’s never going to respond. How long have you been on read?”
“Well, I sent the message ten days ago, and he read it nine days ago.”
“Oh.” She blinks. “Okay. Doesn’t bode well.”
I can’t help but laugh. “See?”
“Look, a week and a half isn’t unheard of for someone to not get back to you. But if he doesn’t, then he doesn’t. It’s his loss. You’re fantastic.”
“I am fantastic.”
She grins. “And modest too.”
“Most modest person you’ll ever meet.”
We link arms and head downstairs to endure another sorority meeting with Agatha being, well, Agatha. At least we have an interesting agenda this time. Yara, who’s in charge of the decorations for the gala, created a PowerPoint presentation, and I love me a good PowerPoint. Especially from Yara, whose slide headings are top-notch.
“All right,” she announces, standing at the projector while everyone shifts their gazes to the screen. “Centerpiece options forthcoming.”
The first slide appears.
DO I BELONG IN THE CENTER OF THE TABLE?
Faith leans into my arm and laughs against my sleeve. I hear some giggles from the freshmen, AKA the inferior scum of the earth leaning against the wall. When I glance over my shoulder, I see Blake standing behind me, grinning. She looks cute today, her hair arranged in two braids that hang down her shoulders.
“Okay, here’s option one,” Yara says.
The next slide pops up, showcasing a tall clear vase with a white satin ribbon around the middle, tied into a neat bow. It sits on a round mirror that reflects the blooms inside the vase: baby’s breath, fern fronds, and a few pastel-pink peonies for a pop of color.
Option one’s heading reads:
I’M NICE, BUT I COULD BE NICER
“This doesn’t wow me,” Sherise admits, chewing on the cap of her ballpoint pen.
“It’s the worst of the bunch,” Yara agrees. “But it’s the cheapest.”
Option two is labeled:
I’M NICER
This frosted-glass vase, sitting on a lace runner, offers pink roses surrounded by sprays of white baby’s breath. It’s better than the first one but not as spectacular as option three, which draws oohs and aahs from everyone.
IMAGINE MY GLORY ON YOUR TABLE
This option sticks to our white and pale-pink color scheme, only gold accents have been incorporated into the palette.
“This one is a bit pricier,” Yara starts, her gaze flitting toward me.
“How much pricier?” I ask, my fingers poised over my keyboard. I take my job as VPF very seriously. Because Agatha forces me to.
Yara stalls for time. “Well, I know we allotted a strict centerpiece budget, and this is definitely over budget, but—”
“How much over budget?”
“About twenty percent,” she mumbles without looking at me.
“Absolutely not,” I say instantly.
“But look at it!”
I glance at the screen, stifling a groan when Yara taps her laptop and another slide appears, featuring all three centerpieces lined up in a row.