Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
He clears his throat, digging out a set of keys, and I see they’re not mine. “Do you have another car at home?” he asks.
“My dad’s old Benz.”
“Does it run?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “It should.”
He sighs, gesturing for me to climb on his bike behind him. “You don’t have to pay me,” he says. “I need something to do this week.”
He starts the bike, and I take the helmet he hands me, pulling it on and fastening it as I sit down behind him. Wrapping my arms around him, I hold tight as he takes off, through the green and shade of the swamp, over the tracks, and onto the two-lane highway as his tires finally touch pavement.
He revs the gas, sending the bike lurching, and I squeeze my arms around his waist, pressing my body close to his.
He’s warm. And tight under my hands.
My friend Amy said he was good. She said he and Dallas didn’t let her get any sleep.
Thoughts of how he might’ve been with her versus me—if it was him last night—hit me, and I push them away.
It’s not worth dwelling on. I won’t be going back over there.
We cruise into the main village of St. Carmen, a street sweeper cleaning the spilled palms and flowers from the storm last night as potted ferns and perennials swing from hangers under streetlights. Shops begin to open, and I unlock my fists, pressing my fingertips flat against his stomach. The wind blows my hair over my back. And while thoughts creep in that I’m practically doing the fucking walk of shame when Clay and the rest of my friends are busy with classes, making something of themselves, I force myself to appreciate this moment. It feels better than school. Better than home.
I wish he’d keep going. Down the coast. To the Keys. Cuba. Anywhere.
I always feel too much guilt. I should be doing this. I should be doing that. I shouldn’t sit down. I shouldn’t wake up late. I shouldn’t drink or party or skip a workout. I rest my cheek against his back, close my eyes, and fly through the wind.
Before I know it, he pulls up to my house, and I see the gate is open.
My mother is home. Great.
He slowly pulls down my driveway, and I spot my mom’s new Maserati parked off to the right. She bought it, because she’s still married to my father, and while I’m sick of her, I’m kind of excited to see my father react when the first payment comes due.
Iron stops behind it, out of direct view of the front of the house. It’s nice how he’s trying to save me from getting yelled at, because he knows no parent wants their daughter getting brought home—in the morning—by a Jaeger.
I sit there, not letting go, though. “Is it weird I’m enjoying this town more with all my friends gone to college now?” I ask him.
I feel him take something out of his pocket.
“I mean, Clay is still in town,” I say as I climb off the bike, “but she’s busy. I don’t have to see too many familiar faces from high school. It’ll only be embarrassing when they come home for the holidays and I’m still doing nothing.”
He flicks his lighter, mumbling over his cigarette as he lights it. “At least you won’t be in jail.”
Puffs of smoke rise into the air. I don’t remember that smell last night. Iron doesn’t smoke a lot, but he smokes every day.
“True,” I say.
If I were him, I’d be depressed, knowing where I was going to be in a week. It’s almost better to just get arrested and go, without the opportunity to dread it.
“It can always be worse.” He peers over his shoulder at me. “And once in a while, it will be. Stay in the moment. This could be it, right?”
This could be it. The Tryst Six motto. A reminder that time is the most valuable commodity and no one can buy more of it.
We can try, but the clock ticks and it never stops. It never slows.
“For what it’s worth,” I tell him, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know. I just …” I’m not sure what I’m trying to say. He did the crime. Multiple times. Blew the chances he was given. He chose this. “I just know you’re good. A good person.”
Despite his troublemaking.
His eyes soften, and I can see the wheels turning in his head as he looks at me. Finally, he gets off the bike and digs into the saddlebag, the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. “I know how you can pay me back,” he tells me. “For fixing your car, I mean. Mariette needs help at the restaurant, and you don’t seem to have a job.”
He pulls out my backpack.
But I shake my head. “I told you. I’m not going back over there.”