Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 58600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Her gaze flits over my body, then to my face. “I was being sarcastic.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
I want to put my arm around her, but that would mean moving too fast, wouldn’t it? It’s been a long time since I’ve dated or even thought about it. Sure, I’ve wanted love, a background hum to the chaos of my everyday life.
This is the first time I’m fighting for it.
“How was the rest of the party?” I ask.
“Very twenty-first century. Lily and Cleo were on their phones, and I was people-watching.”
“Sounds… fun?” I offer.
“Does it?”
“For most people, probably not. But if your starry eyes are any indication, it seems like you enjoyed it.”
Her smile lights up her face, but then she quickly pushes it away, almost like she feels guilty for smiling, and I wonder why that is. “I don’t have starry eyes, Alex.”
“If you say so. Still, I’m right, aren’t I?”
“I like people watching. When I was a kid, I used to play this game. It was…” She pauses. “When I was going through a tough period.”
I clamp down on the urge to ask her what happened. If she wanted to talk about it, she wouldn’t have stopped herself.
“Tell me about the game.”
She stops walking, turning toward the lights of the bars and the clubs. “It’s a little weird.”
“I can do weird.”
“In the bedroom, you mean?” she says, forcing a laugh.
I smile in bemusement. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Pretending to be someone you’re not.”
“Okay, that’s creepy. We don’t even know each other, Alex.”
“Why don’t you say ‘that’s creepy’ like you really mean it?”
She grows flustered, which makes her all the more adorable. She’s got her guard up. The bedroom comment seems like a way for her to deflect. Or perhaps I need to take off my wannabe psychoanalysis hat.
“Tell me about this game,” I say when she seems at a loss for words.
“Look at those people.” She nods to the silhouette of the midnight partiers, a few of them smoking. “Now, imagine that your thoughts, your experiences, your memories – you – are an orb in your head.” She looks at me nervously, like she thinks I’m going to make fun of her.
“Okay…”
“I’d imagine just that, then I’d throw the orb, and then, I’d be in that person’s head. I’d try to imagine everything they might be thinking and feeling. I’d try to become them just for a little bit. Weird, huh?”
“I don’t know if it’s weird or not. I don’t really care. It’s creative and interesting. Are you a writer?”
“Uh… no.”
I chuckle. “Are you sure? Don’t worry. I won’t tell anybody.”
“It’s kind of weird,” she mutters hesitantly.
“There’s that word again. Whoever said you had to be normal, Tori?”
She shrugs, then keeps walking. I walk beside her for a moment, hesitating and wondering if I should do what I desperately want to, then stop overthinking and go for it. I slip my arm over her shoulder. She makes a soft moaning noise and falls against me. The experience is so natural. It’s like we’ve done it countless times before, yet it sizzles with the heat of newness.
My body begins to pulse, my instincts roaring. This hunger has to mean something. It’s an effort to keep my hand on her shoulder. So tempting to slide down over her hip, grab and massage her ass, slide my hand into her pants, and find her…
“This is nice,” she murmurs.
“Yes,” I reply. “It is.” My voice is husky. I need to keep talking so I don’t go ‘full beast’ and tear her clothes off. I say, “What’s weird about not being a writer?”
“Promise not to tell?”
“Swear.”
“I’ve been visiting open mic poetry slam nights for six months. I’ve always wanted to be a poet; when I was really little, I wanted to be an actor. I guess this combines the two.”
“That’s great,” I say, hoping she will tell me more. I want to know everything about her.
“Is it?”
I give her a squeeze. “It sounds like it takes a lot of bravery to get up there when you’re so nervous about it.”
“Who said I was nervous?” she counters.
“You didn’t have to.”
“The performances don’t make me nervous. I’m shocked by how calm I am when I go to the events. As long as nobody I know is there—which, so far, they haven’t been—I’m able to handle it. But the idea of somebody I know seeing it? That freaks me out.”
“Why?” I ask, genuinely curious to know why this makes her nervous. Having a friend to support her should lift her spirit instead of causing her discomfort.
“I don’t know. I guess I like to keep some stuff private.”
“Well, I’d love to see a performance.” When she laughs in disbelief, I squeeze her again, this time with a playful edge. “It’s true. And don’t forget, technically, we don’t know each other, so I’d be a stranger,” I say, with an eyebrow raised.