Total pages in book: 165
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
I stare ahead, lost in thought again.
My family thinks they’re strong, but we’re as brittle as a pie crust. With the knowledge that we’re together, it gives us confidence, but leaving will diminish that just enough for Dallas to leave next. And then Trace and Army, and Iron, and what will all of Macon’s sacrifices be for?
I hate that he’s asking me to stay, but I know why he feels owed. If I leave, I’ll find success, but it’ll be at the expense of my home. And I love my family.
Tears fill my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I realize what Macon must’ve felt when he left the Marines.
And I know exactly what would’ve happened to us if he hadn’t. Where would I have been without him?
“Lost?” someone says.
I turn my head, seeing Megan approach. Her blonde hair blurs, and I wipe my eyes, standing up straight and clearing my throat.
“No.” I force a laugh. “You?”
“Not at all.” She holds up a brown, plastic grocery bag, one of Mariette’s pie boxes inside.
Scratch what I said about the Saints crossing the tracks for no reason. The key lime pie here is the draw, they just always get it to-go.
She stops in front of me, and I avoid her gaze until I blink away the rest of the tears.
“Don’t cry,” she whispers.
“I don’t cry.”
I put a smile on my face and finally raise my eyes, running my hand through my hair. A cool sweat dampens my back, and I slide my hands into my jean shorts pockets, watching her eyes drop for a moment to my cleavage that disappears down my loose tank top.
My skin pricks.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, sounding genuinely concerned.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
I’m so confused, I don’t know where to begin.
“Then, what’s good?” she teases.
A laugh escapes me, and I lean against the wall of the restaurant again, relaxing.
Coming in close, she touches my face with her free hand and my heart skips, closing my eyes and liking it more than I want to. I’m a little vulnerable right now, and I’m kind of tempted to forget that she’s an authority figure. Even if she is only a year or so older than me.
“So busy collecting stones.” She tsks. “You’re missing the diamonds.”
Tears well again, and I know she’s right. I have so many people who love me, and I’m whining.
“I just want to share joy with someone,” my breathing shakes as tears spill through my closed eyes. “I don’t want to be alone in everything I do. Fuck…”
School. Home. Work. The theater. There’s always opposition, and I’m rarely the one in control.
“No one is on my side,” I whisper, meeting her eyes.
It only lasts the span of a breath, but she holds my gaze and I stop breathing, her blonde hair and blue eyes the only thing I see before she’s on me. Her mouth melts into mine, and I only hesitate a moment before I slide my arms around her.
God…
I grip her slim waist, pressing my body into hers, and her groan vibrates down my throat as I squeeze my eyes shut and taste the heat on her breath. Intoxicated.
Or would you wish I was in your room instead? A voice carries me away.
Taking her face in one hand, I spin her around and back her into the wall, her long, silky hair draping down her back, across to tickle my other hand.
I thread her hair through my fingers, feeling its soft silkiness, and nibble her mouth as a moan escapes me.
“Liv,” she begs, her mouth trailing across my cheek and down my neck as she grinds into me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping her hair at her scalp, the urge to go too hard overcoming me. God, I can’t fucking stop. I take her throat in my hand and force her head back, sucking and biting her lips and relishing the feel of her body in my hands.
I’ll show her what she gets for treating me like her fucking servant. For sabotaging all our team’s hard work, and for never being kind to me.
And for letting that punk-ass frat boy touch her. What the hell does she see in him? He has an alarming array of pastel-colored Polo shirts, because he needs to let everyone know he’s a white-as-fuck, roofie-jungle-juice-making Chad.
I kiss her hard, my blood boiling down my arms.
She whimpers, and I’m not sure if it’s pleasure or pain. “Liv.”
“Don’t talk.” I pull away and take her hand. “Get in the car.”
I nod toward Dallas’s Mustang and advance on her as she backs up toward it. Her steps are slow, as if she’s unsure, but her chest rises and falls, and I know she wants it.
I don’t look at her face.
The door opens, I climb in the seat after her, and close the door, pulling her into my arms.