Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“I thought you were talking about sleeping around in college!” I realize my voice is raised, but I can’t help it.
“College?” she asks in disbelief. “That’s what you meant?”
“Yes. I told you. I’m not as much of a manwhore as you think.” I drag in a breath. “Is this why you had such a hard time believing that I wasn’t with anyone for three years?”
She looks stunned. “Is that really the case? You haven’t been with anyone else since that night?”
“Yes.” What will it take for this woman to fucking trust me?
Suddenly, something else hits me. This Ash misunderstanding is why she ghosted me three years ago—as in, for no reason at all. What’s worse is, even now, even with everything clarified, she doesn’t seem to trust me.
“I didn’t see Ash to get laid, by the way,” she says. “In case that’s what you’re thinking.”
I didn’t until now, but—
My phone rings and I want to ignore it, but the ringtone is “The Imperial March,” which means it’s my father calling.
And he never calls me. My mother, sure, but never this late.
“I have to take this,” I tell Kendall tersely and pick up. “Hey. Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” my father says grimly. “It’s your sister. She was just rushed to the hospital.”
Chapter 29
Kendall
As Ashton picks up the phone, I can see that he’s angry about the Ash misunderstanding, and he has a right to be. As I process this new information, I feel progressively shittier. I can’t even fathom how pissed I’d be if our roles were reversed.
Whatever Ashton hears on the other end of the phone call makes all the blood leave his face.
“What happened?” he demands.
I strain to hear, but I can’t.
“Allergic to what?” Ashton shouts.
I can’t hear the answer to this either, but Ashton grits out, “She’s your fucking daughter. It’s your job to know.”
Okay, so I guess it’s one of his parents, and the person in trouble is his sister.
My already-hammering heart speeds up. I really like Jordan, and if something bad has happened to her—
“Did they let Mom ride in the back?” Ashton half asks, half demands.
“Good,” he says next. “Keep me posted. I’m heading to the airport now.”
Hanging up, he looks at me, eyes wild. “Jordan had an allergic reaction. Dad doesn’t know to what. She’s being driven to the hospital as we speak. I’m going over there.”
“Which hospital?” I ask.
“Boston Medical Center,” Ashton replies as he steps over to the curb and hails a cab.
I blink. “Boston?”
“She went to visit our parents,” he says over his shoulder.
Oh.
A cab stops and he jumps in. On impulse, I join him.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
“Coming with you,” I say with a confidence I don’t feel.
“Did you not hear? It’s in Boston.”
“Right,” I say. “I don’t mind the trip.”
“It’s going to be dangerous.” Before I can clarify as to how, he tells the cabbie to get us to JFK and promises him a hundred-dollar tip if he can make it there in a half hour.
“Make it three hundred,” the cabbie counters. “And if I get a ticket, you pay it.”
“Deal.” Turning to me, he says, “Now please get out.”
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Speeding doesn’t scare me. In fact, it sounds kind of fun.”
“You’re slowing me down,” he says. “Please just—”
“Can you just take me? Please?”
“Fine. I don’t have time to talk you out of it.” Turning to the cabbie, he says, “Let’s go.”
The guy punches the gas, and we torpedo forward.
I bite my lip and sneak a glance at Ashton. “Can we talk?”
“No,” he says without looking up from his phone. “You’ve slowed me down enough already. I’ve got to make arrangements with my dog sitter and get plane tickets.”
Ah. “Okay. Get me one too? I’ll pay you back.”
He grumbles something unintelligible, still without looking up, and stays on his phone for the next fifteen minutes—which makes him miss the car-chase-like maneuvers the cabbie pulls on FDR Drive.
“Did you get them?” I ask him when he finally looks up.
He nods. “If we make it there in a half hour, we’ll have twenty minutes to board.”
In other words, our chances are pretty slim.
“I have TSA PreCheck,” I say, trying to stay positive. “Do you?”
“Yes,” he says, then winces as the cab zooms across traffic from the middle to the right lane, cutting off a giant truck in the process.
I want to remind the cabbie that if we’re dead, he won’t get paid, but I don’t, as that might piss off Ashton even more.
Then again, maybe I should say something. The cabbie cuts off a bus and nearly collides with a Tesla Y, all in the matter of a millisecond.
Meanwhile, Ashton looks so worried I can’t help but put a hand on his shoulder.
Frowning, he shrugs off my hand. The rejection stings, but I dare not ask if he’s acting this way because of the Ash debacle, or if he’s too stressed for touching right now in general.