Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
There’s a moment of silence that jars me. A look down at the screen tells me it’s an unlisted number.
“Hello?” I mutter, listening hard.
“Lucas? Is that you?”
It’s the strangest thing. Like a spark shoots out of the receiver and travels straight to my brain, lighting up the synapses until they glow like a fucking light bulb. It’s the voice. That vaguely familiar voice.
“Yes. Who is this?” I ask though part of me knows. But it’s impossible. Something somewhere in the back of my mind tells me to hang up and forget about it. Nothing good can come of it.
Before I can do that, she speaks again. “It’s me. It’s Charlotte.”
18
DELILAH
This has been a hellish week, but at least it’s Friday, meaning I’ll be able to hide out in my room for the most part over the next two days. But I still have to get through the second half of today in one piece.
That’s what my life is now. Divided hour by hour. I can get to the next one if I just make it through this class. Then I can go to lunch, which I dread all morning long, from the moment I open my eyes. Because at lunch, there’s less structure. No instructor at the front of the room glaring at anybody who dares to speak out of turn. We’re supposed to at least pretend to pay attention, even though so many people don’t. What do they care? They’re from rich families. They don’t have to pretend they want to learn how to navigate the underworld. They’ll have people to do it for them.
But lunch is like being thrown into a swamp full of alligators just dying to take a bite out of me. Anywhere I look, somebody is glaring at me. Snickering, laughing. Muttering insults and gossip or flat-out threatening me. Bitch. Traitor. Cunt.
I wish I could say I’ve started to grow a thicker skin after a week’s worth of it. That I can ignore the worst of it because, after all, not one of them knows me. They don’t know what I’ve been through. They weren’t in that awful room with that disgusting little costume. They weren’t about to be raped.
I wish I could say it doesn’t bother me, but I’ve never been big on lying to myself. I want to scream at them, smash my tray over their heads, and shriek in their faces. I want them all to know every humiliating, filthy detail, even though it would mean embarrassing myself.
Then again, they wouldn’t believe me because they don’t want to. It’s easier to hate me. Like a group activity that brings everybody closer together. All thanks to me and the horror show my life has become.
I navigate my way between tables, moving quickly but carefully. I have no doubt somebody will trip me, elbow me, or shove their chair out from their table to make me drop my tray and spill everything. Or worse. They want me to get hurt. They want to see me fall.
I am not going to give them the satisfaction. I won’t do it. And they can all go to hell.
It’s easy to think that. But it’s another story when I take a seat and feel the weight of so many stares on me. I want to ask what the hell they think they’re all looking at, but of course, that wouldn’t get me anywhere. Instead, I pick up my sandwich and take a bite, glad that at least the kitchen staff isn’t trying to kill me.
All I have to do is eat quickly and get the hell out of here. I wish there was time to get back to my room to eat alone before going to my next class. I don’t know how I’m going to eat over the weekend—maybe I’ll have to come down early, like as soon as the cafeteria opens, and grab enough to get me through the day before running back to the dorm. If it means not having to deal with being on display like this? I’m fine with it.
“Hey, traitor. Murder anybody today?”
It’s rare for someone to get so close to me. Most of them insult me from a distance. I look up from my tray to find Ren because he would be enough of a dick to do this. I’m sure Q put him up to it. I try not to stare at him. He’s got secrets in his dark eyes, and I can tell from a mile away he hates me. The way he watches people, the secretive things he does. He’s either very quiet or training to become a serial killer.
“No, but it’s only a little after noon. Still plenty of time.” I force a brittle smile before taking another bite of what is suddenly dry and tasteless. I chew it anyway, slowly and deliberately, staring up at him.