Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
I’m not going to lie, this little groupie group that he has pisses me off a little.
The only solace is that he doesn’t seem to be interested in any of them. I mean, he talks to them and shoots the shit with them as well but he doesn’t look at them like he wants them.
Which is a very good thing.
Very good.
And I think… wait.
Wait, wait, wait.
It looks like my solace was temporary because right in front of my eyes, here comes a new addition to the group. A girl I’ve never seen before, and as soon as she arrives, his eyes focus on her. They practically devour this new blonde with a short sleek haircut. She’s got a skinny, model-like body that reaches up to his sculpted jaw, and she has a killer red dress on.
And I can’t help but notice that the one girl he’s taken any romantic interest in is the complete opposite of me.
I have long dark tresses that go down to the small of my back. I’m not very tall. Not by myself at least. In four-inch heels, I can be five seven. If I stand up on my tiptoes, I can stretch myself up to a solid five eight, but that’s it. And I’m definitely not skinny.
But neither am I curvy, per se.
But for someone as short as me, the meat that I do have on my bones — on my ass and thighs, my chest which is a decent 32C and my hips too — appears to give me a compact curvy sort of look.
So as I said, the complete opposite of me.
Is that what his type is then?
Is that why he never paid attention to his other groupies, because they aren’t reed thin blonde bombshells?
I’m offended on their behalf.
I’m enraged on mine.
And oh my God, oh my God, where is he going with her?
Where the fuck are they going?
I watch as he grabs her hand and pulls her behind him as he starts walking. He crosses the pool area and dumps his beer bottle in a trash can without breaking stride. Meanwhile the drunken crowd around him gives him back pats and high fives as he moves through them with ease.
As if he’s royalty or something.
Well, he is.
From what I’ve heard and seen.
The soccer royalty that not just the school but the whole of Bardstown bows down to.
But that’s not important right now.
What’s important is that it looks like he won’t stop until he gets to where he’s going and I think he’s going somewhere with privacy. But when he reaches the back deck that leads inside the house, he pauses and I swear to God my heart pauses with him.
Then standing there, on the raised wooden deck, he turns a little. And holy shit, his eyes hone in on the shrubs lining the backyard. They hone in right where I am hiding.
As if he knows I’m there.
But that’s… that’s impossible. That’s…
My thoughts cease to exist because just as quickly as he’d paused and ‘looked’ in my direction — which is insane; there’s no way that he knows — he turns back and resumes his purposeful strides with the blondie in tow. And as soon as he disappears, I spring up from my hiding position and go after him.
Bad, bad thing to do.
Very bad.
And if I stopped for a second, I’d be able to come up with all the reasons why it’s so bad.
But like him, I’m not stopping. I’m jogging through the misty grass in the backyard, rushing along the pool where people are frolicking, crossing his group of friends and reaching the back deck, all ready to go into the house. But I’m stopped right at the threshold by two guys that flank the glass sliding doors.
Or more specifically, two drunk guys.
Who may also be high.
Given the strong whiff of marijuana coming from them.
“Hello there,” one of them says.
Before I can respond, the second one goes, “You look new.”
I do, yes.
Because I am.
And now that I’ve come to a halt, I finally have time to think things through and realize why this is a bad thing. Number one: they’re both wearing soccer jerseys, which could mean that they’re on the team. And if they are they must know my brother, and if they’re here — at this party I mean — then they must not be big fans of his, to put it mildly.
“And pretty,” the first one keeps going.
The second one looks me up and down, all lazily and drunkenly. “Yeah, pretty hot.”
Yikes.
I start with the long-hair guy. “Hi.” Then I move on to the goatee guy. “Not sure calling a girl ‘pretty hot’ in your sleazy way’s a good way to start a conversation but,” I smile, “thanks. I know.”
The goatee guy’s undeterred though. “Well, I speak the truth, babe.”