Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 593(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 593(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
“Don’t be a stranger.”
She smiled. “Being strangers is exactly who we should be, Cole.”
What makes you feel alive?
Singing like no one’s listening. Dancing like no one’s watching. Eating like calories don’t exist.
“I CALL IT A MAYCHUP, because it’s a mix between ketchup and mayo,” I told Dean as we sat on the hood of his Volvo, eating In-N-Out in front of the ocean, on a golden hill somewhere no one could yell at me about how much of a disappointment I was. I swirled the mayo and the ketchup together into an orange dip using one fry, and nibbled on the tip of it when I was done. Dean took a bite of his burger—no fries—and watched me. I avoided looking at his face all throughout the drive. I couldn’t look at his eyes without remembering how they taunted me when he fucked the living life out of me. I couldn’t look at his lips without remembering how they sucked on my clit hungrily. I couldn’t look at his arms without remembering how they boxed and claimed me in that dirty truck. And, of course, I still felt the strings of his hot cum on my ribs, even though he wiped it off with my ex-boyfriend’s shirt, and I had taken a shower after Millie had left my room this morning.
“I still can’t believe you didn’t let me buy beer.” He swallowed his bite, staring at the ocean.
“As long as you’re around me, you’re not allowed to consume booze or smoke weed,” I said, unaffected by his deep frown. I dangled my feet from his hood and enjoyed the summer breeze on my flesh.
“You fucking suck,” he muttered.
“You wish,” I snorted, but it died in my throat when I realized this couldn’t be a joke anymore. He looked up from his burger, his face brooding and serious.
“I don’t wish for things, sweetheart. I think by now you know, when I want something, I make it happen.”
Goddammit, I was leaking again.
There was something in the air. A sizzling wire of nerves that kept bouncing between us. So many things had to be addressed, but I didn’t want to talk about any of them. I just wanted to survive this trip.
After we ate, I stuck a USB in his MacBook and shared some of my favorite bands with him. Whitney, Animal Collective, Big Ups, and The Chromatics. He seemed into it, but you could never really tell with Dean Cole, because he seemed to be into everything.
“Remember what we used to listen to when we were in high school?” Dean grinned all of a sudden. I wrinkled my nose, trying to look unimpressed when really, I was elated.
“You mean the music you used to listen to. I only tolerated it when I absolutely had to.”
“Cut the bullshit, babe. You liked pop and R&B just like everyone else.”
“I had a versatile taste,” I protested, knowing he was referring to me shaking my ass to Jennifer Lopez tunes in skimpy clothes at Vicious’s parties, even though I was hopelessly passionate about indie bands from the nineties.
He jumped down to the ground, collecting our wrappers and empty cups. “Don’t go anywhere. A blast from the past is coming your way.”
I stayed put, watching as he walked to the nearest trashcan, throwing away our leftovers. His muscles were prominent, even through his white shirt and tailored khaki pants. My eyes lingered on his biceps, scrolling down to his tight ass, before he turned around and looked at me.
Then smiled.
Then winked.
Then mouthed, “Busted.”
I looked away, feeling my face reddening. He was right, of course. I wanted to sleep with him again, and couldn’t think of anything else other than his body against mine. When he sat back next to me, he picked up his MacBook and played “Naughty Girl” by Beyoncé.
“Remember this one?” He turned to me and laughed. “First night Baby LeBlanc ever got shitfaced.”
Covering my face with both palms, the memory of dancing on Vicious’s coffee table assaulted my mind. I was so goddamn drunk I thought it would be a terrific idea to join my cheerleading friends who danced on the table. They knew what they were doing. I looked like I was swatting away a thousand imaginary flies. This resulted in me trying to mimic their movements—and failing—smacking them here and there in the process, until Vicious asked, “What the fuck is the little LeBlanc sister doing? Having a seizure on my table? Someone get her down before she hurts the other girls.” Not even a second later, I felt Dean digging his muscular shoulder into my thighs, throwing me over it and spinning me in place until I screamed for him to put me down.
“Whatever. It was hard to fit in as a junior who transferred from Virginia. I had to make sacrifices. Do you remember this song?”