Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
FOUR
lee
There’s this insistent buzzing, like a fly that won’t go away. I crack one eye open and immediately regret it as sunlight stabs straight through my skull. There’s that buzzing sound again. I groan and slap my hand in the direction of the noise. What the hell? It continues, and I realize my fingers are wrapped around my phone, the buzzing radiating up my arm. I squint at the screen to see the words on it. Seventeen missed calls from Mother.
Two from Father. Oh, I’m surprised he rouses himself for the effort.
One from my sister, Emma. That one I might return.
Close to thirty texts all basically say the same thing.
Mother: Come home. Immediately. This is not a request.
“Fuck,” I moan, rolling onto my back. I’m met with instant regret, the desire to vomit climbing up my throat. Why did I let Aries convince me those last shots were a good idea? My ceiling spins lazily above me, and I try to remember if I have class today. Try to remember what day it even is. Oh wait. I graduated. Shit. I’m further gone than I thought.
My phone buzzes again, and I focus on the screen this time.
Mother: If you are not here within the hour, there will be consequences.
Another buzz.
Mother: And please try to dress like someone who wasn’t raised in a barn.
I throw my arm over my eyes and contemplate going back to sleep. Except the last time I ignored a summons to the family estate, they froze my accounts for a month. I had to actually think about getting a job.
The horror.
“Fine,” I huff and announce to the empty room, moving into a sitting position.”But I’m wearing ripped jeans just to piss her off.”
A dull throb in my skull develops when I stand, and my attention scatters between the mess of my room—when did I get so many empty bottles?—the growing urgency of my bladder, and the weird, lingering memory of brown eyes and cherry-scented breath in a dark pantry. Focus. Shower. Clothes. Drive. In that order.
I can do this. I can totally handle whatever fresh hell my family has planned for me this time. There goes my phone again. Buzzing. I wish it would buzz out the fucking window.
Mother: One hour, Lee. Don’t make me send your father.
As if he would.
What-the fuck-ever. Walking into the bathroom, I finish undressing and turn on the shower. I wash my hair and body, taking my time just for the hell of it. Once I’m rinsed off, I kill the water, step out, and dry off. I leisurely get dressed, my gaze catching on the bottles of medication lining the bathroom sink. I’m supposed to take the ADHD medication and anxiety meds daily, but I don’t. I hate the way they make me feel, like I’m not me.
I’d rather medicate myself with alcohol. I check the clock on my nightstand. I could leave right now and get there a little early, but I don’t want to be in my parents’ presence any longer than necessary. Plus, I have a better idea. Walking over to the bed, I grab my laptop, plop down on the mattress, and immerse myself in all that is Pantry Girl.
Drew told me her name last night after I drunkenly asked him. Salem Masters. She looks like a Salem, but I prefer Pantry Girl more.
Who knew obsession could ignite so quickly?
After one stolen moment in that dark pantry, I had to know who she was and what she was about. I don’t know what fascinates me about her; she’s nothing special, but I can’t seem to shake the immediate infatuation. So instead of fighting it, I choose to lean into it. Maybe if I figure her out, the desire to know more about her will disappear. It does help that I know a thing or two about hacking and my way around the dark web.
I did somehow finish my degree in computer engineering.
I keep my research light, letting Google tell me what it can about her. It doesn’t take long for one open tab to become ten and a few minutes to become twenty. I’m engrossed in the information and swallow it up like a processor. My phone buzzes insistently from across the room. I studiously avoid looking in its direction.
Maybe if I don’t look at it … fuck. Anxiety slowly trickles in. I need to get going, but I’m nowhere close to being satisfied with what I’ve found out about Salem.
I need more.
Leverage. Secrets. Everything.
Old pictures of her in other people’s Facebook posts, most dated over a year ago, show a completely different girl from the one I met in the pantry. A happy Salem. Laughing, with her arms wrapped around a friend’s neck and a barbecue chicken leg in one fist.
Another one of her is on a pool floaty with a koozie in her hand. She’s wearing a red bikini that gives me very indecent ideas.