Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 63758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
He lowers his head and captures my lips, stealing my breath. I feel the reverberation of the kiss between my legs–a slow pulsing that revs my nearly-dead sex drive back to life.
I drink Flynn in. He represents everything I want–the embodiment of carefree youth, of possibility, of living moment-to-moment. Sucking the juice out of life.
When I stand at the window in our apartment and look down at the world outside the building, I yearn to be someone like Flynn. But it seems so impossible. Like there’s an invisible barrier at the door to the building, and the moment I pass through it, I go mad.
When the elevator doors open on the ground floor, I’m breathless and horny.
But then things get hard. We’re leaving the building. Going out into the world–something I hate.
There will be people out there. Strangers. Voices and bodies and the possibility of drowning in shadows again. I know that’s not logical. I’m safe. I’m free. I haven’t been fed drugs and chained to a bed for months now. And it will never happen again. Adrian has promised. My therapist assures me.
But my body still goes into fight or flight at the tiniest tweak of my senses.
I keep my lips closed and try to suck slow breaths in through my nose. I can do this. I’m with Flynn.
Everything is fine.
I can do this. I can do this. The sound of grinding gears grows louder around my head. My focus narrows and goes fuzzy.
Fuck. Am I breathing? I might pass out.
“Hey.” I hear Flynn’s voice, but it’s from far away. Except he’s standing right next to me. “Climb on my back.”
I blink. Flynn turns and bends his knees, holding his arms out from his sides.
“What?” The grinding gears sound fades.
“Hop on.”
I’m so confused. Did I miss something? Was the world spinning for longer than it seemed?
“Why?” My focus starts to return.
“So I can carry you,” he says as if it makes perfect sense. As if I’m in bare feet, and we need to cross over crushed glass.
I’m able to draw in a deep breath through my nose. I use it to leap onto Flynn’s back, wrapping my legs around his waist. He tucks his hands under my knees and starts to jog with me, whirling and tilting like a drunken sailor.
A surprised laugh tumbles from my lips. “What are you doing?”
“Taking you for a ride.”
The shadows lift. The mechanical whirring stops completely. I close my eyes, savoring the moment. The icy air against my face. The immense gratitude in my heart for this kind-hearted man.
Just like that, I'm firmly back in my body. I can breathe. I'm not afraid. I'm actually…having fun. It seems impossible, and yet it's happening. To me.
“Do you want to go to the lake?” I ask. I've never been. I live in a building that overlooks Lake Michigan and have never even been the block it takes to walk to the shore. All this time, I've looked out our living room windows and watched the people down below. The joy of children running on the sand. The joggers along the walkway. The families nested under sun umbrellas and the joyful souls flying kites. I watch the boats float out on the water.
I've dreamed of what it would be like to come out here and join the living. But I haven't dared. But with Flynn, it seems possible. Almost anything seems possible with Flynn.
“You want to go to the lake?” he asks. “It will be cold. But I guess, you're from Russia, so you probably won't mind. We could get our coffees and take them with us to keep us warm.”
“That sounds nice.”
Flynn spins our bodies in a few more whirls and then careens through the doorway of a coffee shop. There, he lowers me to my feet. I look around. There are people in the shop. People I don't know. Strangers. But they're all talking amongst themselves. In their own worlds. No one even looks at us. I wait for the familiar sense of panic to rise, so I can stave it back down, so I can tell myself I'm fine because I'm here with Flynn. But it never comes. I truly am fine. Flynn is magic.
He leads me up to the counter and says, “What would you like?”
I am unafraid. Absolutely fearless. I look the barista right in her eye and say “I'll have a mocha.”
“Make that two.” Flynn pulls a ten dollar bill from his pocket.
I beam, marveling at how simple and easy that was. How I'm not even scared right now. We take our mochas outside where we walk toward the shore side by side. The drink is warm and sweet. When I slow to sip it, Flynn matches my pace.
That seems to be his gift.
“Where did you and Story learn to play guitar?” I ask.