Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
He’s at the side of my bed now, forcing me to angle my head to look up at him.
“I’m not hungry for pizza.” His voice is almost a growl, and the only way I can respond is by nodding and licking my lips.
He doesn’t reach for me though. He doesn’t yank the comforter that’s hiding my bare legs away. He doesn’t crush his mouth to mine and tell me all the dirty things he wants to do to me.
Instead, he turns away, crosses the room again, and pulls on his jacket minus his leather cut.
“Let’s go grab something to eat.”
I ignore him, keeping my eyes low as my fingers press into one of the yellowing bruises on my arm.
“I’m not hungry,” I mumble when the silence grows too big around us, and I feel forced to speak.
“Come on,” he urges, his hand appearing in front of my face. “The fresh air will do you some good.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“I can’t stay trapped in here with you tonight.”
I ignore the desperation in his voice. I have to. Otherwise I’ll mistake it for something else like I did just moments ago. He doesn’t want me. He just has a fucked-up sense of obligation to me for some reason.
“Then go back to your clubhouse. I’m sure the things going on there are more entertaining and better suited for your needs.”
“There’s nothing at the clubhouse I want.” His fingers curl, insistence in the long digits as he flexes them for me to take.
“No.” I slap his hand away and avoid looking back up at him. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter, and I’m tired of the damn sympathy.”
“Kaci.” My name from his perfect lips is a warning.
With my spine so straight it makes my hips ache, I look up at him and point to my face, indicating the bruises that are beginning to heal, but are far from gone. “I’m not going to leave and do something stupid. The party guys don’t really go for the visibly damaged. They are more into a blank canvas they can fuck up themselves.”
His jaw ticks as he clamps his teeth together. It only makes looking at him that much more difficult. He’s fucking gorgeous, and if I lean in, I bet I could smell his cologne and the late spring air clinging to his clothes from the ride over. Just the scent of him is addiction inducing.
“We’re going to get something to eat.” His lips barely move with his words, and I’m wondering if I’ve finally pissed him off enough, finally managed to break through his ungodly level of patience.
The blanket is snatched back, revealing my bare legs, and by the further hardening of his jaw, I can tell he sees the tiny slit of fabric between my legs, exposed from sitting Indian style.
“Get dressed,” he hisses before turning away and walking to my fridge.
Like a petulant child being forced to go to early Sunday morning church with her parents, I stand from my bed and rip my tank over my head. My nipples furl the second the cool air hits them, but I don’t bother to cover my chest, and I definitely don’t miss his eyes widening as I slowly walk to my single dresser to grab clothes.
“Fuck you,” he spits angrily as he glares at me and reaches for his leather vest. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
I jolt, standing in place when my door slams closed. It feels like an eternity passes, but my need to see him, to apologize for whatever the hell he thinks I’ve done motivates me to grab some clothes. Like a fool, I carry them into the bathroom, and realize once I see myself in the mirror why he was in such a rush to get away from me.
Blemishes, contusions, and discolored skin greets me. I press a soft finger to the boot mark on my side. My eyes scrunch and my lips form a flat line, but it doesn’t stop me. I press three fingers into the injury as a reminder. Every man that walks the face of the earth is a piece of shit, and TJ isn’t excluded from that. If anything, he’s even more fucked up than the rest, nurturing me, trying to get me to trust him, all part of his game until he tears me apart.
Knowing this, I dress in a rush, ignoring the scream from my ribs as I tug a long-sleeved shirt over my head. I don’t bother with makeup to cover the fading bruises on my face. I want people around me when they see us together to be disgusted, to think that he beats me and I’m the idiot who has stuck by his side. I do run a brush through my hair and braid it down my back so it doesn’t get tangled on our ride on his motorcycle, though.