Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Weirdo,” one of the girls mutters as she passes.
I turn just in time to see the reckless driver hot on my heels. It’s then I realize they were laughing at him, not me. He’s absently unwrapping a piece of candy, not paying a bit of attention to the fact he’s about to slam right into me. Right before I start to move out of his way, another big guy pounces on him.
“There’s my boy!”
The weirdo grunts as he attempts to swat away the other guy, who’s now trying to put him in a bear hug. I step aside to watch them. They’re both older than me and one of them wears a PMU letterman jacket with a football patch and the number fourteen below it.
“You’re not in this building today,” Weirdo says, voice low and quiet. “Why are you here?”
“To see you, dipshit. You’ve been avoiding me and I’m over it.” The football guy finally pulls away to grin at his friend.
“Dax,” Weirdo huffs, “I told you—”
“I know,” Dax says with a groan. “Cedarwood comes first. Dude, sometimes you make it difficult as fuck to be your bestie.”
What is Cedarwood?
As though I’ve asked the question aloud, Dax turns his head my way. His green eyes rove appreciatively over my carefully selected outfit before landing back on my face.
“Hey,” Dax says, lips curling into a grin. “What’s up, beautiful?”
“Tell your friend to watch where he’s going,” I blurt out, ignoring his attempt at flirting. “He nearly ran me over with his hunk of junk.”
The weirdo snaps his head up, finally giving me his attention, and pins his light gray eyes on me. His almost creepily pale eyes slice right through me, penetrating me in a way that makes me shiver, and not from the chilly January wind.
“It’s a 1988 Land Rover Defender 90,” the weirdo clips out, scowling, the scent of butterscotch enveloping me with his nearness. “It’s called a classic, not junk.” His eyes dart over me quickly, instant dislike twisting his features. “And the parking lot is for cars. You should have been paying attention to where you were going.”
I gape at him. What a dick.
“Two, bro, chill,” Dax says, moving to stand in front of his friend. “Sorry about that. His dads dropped him on his head a lot when he was a baby.”
My alarm on my watch beeps, reminding me I need to be in class now. I wave off Dax before pivoting and storming away from the two men. What kind of name is Two anyway? And did he seriously just chastise me for nearly getting run over by him?
Rude.
Whatever.
I’m not going to let that guy ruin my day. Forcing another smile, I make my way into the building and down the hall to my classroom. Since I’m late, there’s only one available table right up front. The professor, a man with a long, graying beard, arches a brow at me but doesn’t mention my tardiness. I’m just settling into my seat and unzipping my bag when another person enters the classroom.
“Mr. Sheridan,” the professor says, a smile tugging at his lips. “I was wondering if you were going to show up.”
Two Sheridan gives the man a slight nod before he scans the room for a seat. His eyes land on mine and then dart to the chair beside me. He flares his nostrils as though the thought of sitting beside me is annoying.
Join the club, buddy. You’re no prize peach yourself.
Ignoring him, I face the professor, eager to get class started. My morning has been off and I’m ready to get it back on track again.
“I’m Jack Pederson,” our professor says, hands on his hips, “and this is not a blow-off class. If you signed up thinking you were going to sleep through this one, you may as well take yourself down to Administration and drop this course.”
One guy playfully pretends to stand up, but Mr. Pederson waves a dismissive hand at him. “Charlie, don’t be cute.”
Charlie sniggers but settles back in his seat. I’d been hoping it would be easy, but as Mr. Pederson passes out the syllabus, I’m beginning to question that initial line of thinking.
“As you can see,” Mr. Pederson says as he makes his way back to the front, “this class will be comprised of lectures on architectural history, seminars on preservation techniques, case studies that analyze successful examples of historical preservation and urban renewal projects, and of course various class trips to local historical sites.” He waggles a finger at Charlie. “Yes, the field trips are for a grade. You skip them and you get a zero.”
Charlie groans. “Hard-ass.”
“You’re still here.” Mr. Pederson shrugs. “That makes you a masochist.”
The class, everyone aside from me and Two, sniggers. There’s clearly history—no pun intended—between Mr. Pederson and some of the students in this class, including Two. Once again, I feel like an outsider.