Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“You’ll be cold.” She reaches out to take it anyway.
“I won’t. I’m a furnace.”
She’s swallowed up by the black fabric, and when it’s over her head, it swamps her. Looking down at herself, she laughs.
“You really are a big boy.”
“Huh. Yeah. I guess.” Malik’s comment from early spins into my mind. Maybe just stick to the lube, Hayes. You’re a big boy. The ladies will thank you for it.
This woman isn’t a waif, but she’s still small compared to me. Fuck. Why am I thinking about fucking? We’re just having a conversation.
“Do you always step in when damsels are in distress?”
I think about my momma and how she’d cower when my dad was angry. I never witnessed him raise a fist, but I heard her crying from behind a closed door and the thud of flesh on flesh. I saw the bruises. I did fuck-all about that.
I turn in a direction where there is something else to look at other than her plump, slightly flushed cheeks and the sweet upturn of her nose. She has stud earrings up the entirety of one ear that fascinate me inexplicably.
“So…” My mind is blank. I shouldn’t have suggested this. Me, women and conversation are an awkward combination.
She leans against the wall of the house, her hands buried in the sleeves of my hoodie so that only her pink fingernails grip the cuffs. “I can fight my own battles, but these assholes only listen when it’s a man saying no.”
“You shouldn’t have to fight your own battles.”
She nods.
“What’s your name? I mean, we’re dating, so it seems like something I should know.”
“You can call me Beth.”
“Beth.” She doesn’t look like a Beth, although I couldn’t pinpoint what a Beth should look like. Maybe more studious, with glasses and bangs. Not like the girl next door who changes in front of her window so you can jack off to her naked voluptuousness.
God, if she could view my mind, she’d be fucking disgusted.
You can call me Beth. Seems like an odd way to tell someone your name.
She slides her hand into her pants pocket and pulls out a small silver flask, handing it to me. “It’s better than that pisswater they have inside.”
I stare at the small vessel, unscrew the cap, and sniff. The unmistakable scent of whiskey wafts out. “You drink the hard stuff?”
“It’s the only alcohol my dad ever has in the house. I got used to it.”
“Illicit drinking.” I tip the flask and take a long, burning gulp. “Such a rebel.”
“Nah. He didn’t mind me drinking a little whiskey. It’s medicinal. Better than drinking cola or any of those other drinks… chemicals with bubbles.”
“I guess.”
“What’s your favorite drink?”
“Whiskey,” I admit. “I’ll drink Jack, but I prefer Scotch.”
“This is Scotch.”
“I can tell.” We smile at each other, pleased with our shared love of the good stuff.
The warmth of the alcohol flows through my chest and into my stomach. I take another swig and pass the flask back to Beth.
“Never seen a girl drink whiskey before.”
“You’re a hockey player. You only date the plastic fantastic girls who mainline lettuce and fizzy water.”
“That’s not me,” I say.
She raises a skeptical eyebrow.
From around the corner, a girl’s voice rises above the music. Beth flinches and scrambles to put the lid on the flask, tucking it back in her pocket.
“Riley.” Malik’s little sister Imani sticks her head around the corner and breathes a sigh of relief when she spots Beth. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Her attention turns to me, and a slow smile spreads over her face, and when she notices my hoodie, her smile widens. “Was I disturbing something? I’m sorry.”
“Riley?” I say, turning the name over in my head. That’s what Imani was calling out. Not Beth. Riley.
I knew a Riley once. A little girl who shared our house for a while until our parents stopped dating. She had frizzy hair and bangs that were too short. She dressed in overalls and shirts that were too tight, like she’d outgrown her wardrobe, and her dad hadn’t kept up with new outfits. Riley’s dad used to sit on our couch at night and savor a measure of whiskey.
“Riley?” I say again, this time searching her face.
“Shit.” She struggles out of my sweatshirt and stuffs it back into my arms.
Before I can question her any further, she’s grabbed Imani’s arm and stormed away, leaving me gaping at the woman I think is my ex-stepsister, who is now all grown up.
4
JACOB
“What in the actual fuck are you talking about?” Shawn slurs at Hayes, who, five seconds ago, dragged me away from a horny brunette, babbling something about our stepsister. “We don’t have a stepsister, dude.”
“Yeah, but we used to. Riley. You remember her?” Hayes looks between us, searching for recognition.
I frown, trying to drag an almost decade-old memory out of the cranial filing cabinet. It’s not helping that I have another headache pounding behind my temples. Another headache I’m trying to ignore. “Yeah. I guess. It was a long time ago. I couldn’t pick her out of a lineup.”