Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Quinn’s silent and then. “Oh nothing, just that I know Ambrose better than he knows himself, and we tend to have the same… appetite.” I gulp nervously. “I mean, we both like pizza and yogurt. Stop panicking.” He winks.
Liar. He meant me. I can see it in the way he looks me up and down like he’d pick me over pizza any day.
Ambrose reaches across the consul like he’s going to grab my hand, only he pulls it back and clenches his hand into a tight fist in his lap while he keeps the other on the steering wheel.
The tension is palpable in that expensive sports car. Finally, we reach the house and pull in.
It feels lonely even with two people. I think I’d prefer a shit apartment that felt like home instead of a mansion that felt like a museum.
The boys are quiet again as we grab our bags and walk into the house. Ambrose puts his on the floor next to the door like he has zero intention of doing homework today, and Quinn does the same like they’ve done this a million times in this house. I suddenly feel almost like I’m the third wheel, even though I know the tension between them is still super thick.
I can’t get over what Quinn said earlier, and the fact that Ambrose won’t speak about any of it makes me super uncomfortable, like how long can you keep that sort of heaviness inside your soul until you snap?
The words might make it real-but words disappear instantly once they’re out into the world. The more you keep them in, the bigger they get.
At least, that’s my experience.
Ambrose grabs a water from the fridge, slams it shut, pounds it, then tosses it to me. “Want some?”
I catch it mid-air, then toss it back. “I’m good, so um… should we talk about why everything was chaotic at school?”
“No.” They both said in unison.
I drum my fingers across the white countertop. “So what you said after class, Quinn?”
“What?” Ambrose stands up straight rather than leaning against the countertop. “What did you say to her?”
“Leave it.” Quinn grits his teeth at me.
“What the fuck did you say!” Ambrose yells.
Quinn kicks the barstool in front of him. “It just came out, okay!”
“The hell!” Ambrose chucks the water bottle at Quinn, who is smart enough to duck just in time, only to stand back up and charge Ambrose shoving him against the fridge.
“None of your damn business!” Quinn swings for Ambrose’s face, but Ambrose blocks the punch.
Ambrose grabs Quinn by the shirt and punches him in the stomach. “What.” Punch. “Did.” Punch. “You.” Punch. “Say!”
“THAT WE WERE RAPED!” Quinn yells. “Is that what you want me to admit? Should I yell it louder so the neighbors can hear us?”
Ambrose loses his footing and just crumples to the floor in a heap. He doesn’t look up at me, and Quinn isn’t looking at me either.
“I should go,” Quinn says once Ambrose has his hands covering his head.
“No, stay.” Ambrose gets up. “I’ll go.”
“No,” I yell out. “Nobody is leaving this house until we talk about this.”
“Well…” Ambrose starts walking away. “…good thing it’s a big house.”
Quinn’s eyes squeeze shut for a brief moment. I walk over to him and put my hand on his as he braces himself against the countertop, his fingers white.
“Quinn?” I reach for him.
He abruptly pushes off the counter and turns to me, eyes blazing. “I’m swimming. Wanna join?”
“Are you planning on swimming with me or drowning me?”
“Depends, are you going to ask me about it again in front of Ambrose?”
I shake my head no.
“Then I’ll most likely swim with you.”
“Most likely?”
“Shit.” He throws his hands in the air. “It’s all I’ve got right now, all right?”
Not exactly comforting, but I still follow him out to the pool.
And when he just starts stripping and jumps in the pool without any clothes on, I hesitate.
Ambrose is right upstairs.
Their relationship is already on rocky ground, so I sit near the shallow end on the ledge and drop my feet into the water.
“Afraid of a bit of dick?” Quinn teases, swimming over to me.
“Me? Never. I just thought I should save your life.”
He frowns.
I point back at the house. “You’d be the one getting drowned.”
“Nakedness is natural.” He swims up toward the stairs and then stands, fully erect, his eyes hone in on mine. “See? Nothing weird about being naked.”
“Yes, but there is something weird about being turned on by that unicorn floaty behind you.” I tease, mouth dry as I try to look anywhere but below his chest.
He’s like a Greek god, and I’ve always hated that comparison, but really, where Ambrose is more bulky, Quinn’s lean, has a runner’s body, and isn’t afraid to show it.
Why are all problematic boys running around with the perfect V?