Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll keep it in mind.” It won’t always be this way—I know that. I’m not naïve. But for right now, if I can arrange it for the two of us to be together alone, that’s what I want. Having her all to myself… it’s addictive. She’s addictive.
So addictive, my dick is twitching and thickening by the time I reach the truck. She’s still not here, and I can’t ignore the way my heart sinks a little when I don’t find her smiling face waiting. Maybe she got caught up after class—nobody around here is stupid or suicidal enough to fuck with her now that we’ve spent the past week practically attached to each other. They wouldn’t be that stupid, would they? I hate that I even have to think it, but the thought is definitely at the forefront of my mind as I take my phone from my pocket, prepared to ask her about the holdup.
At some point, she sent me a text, probably while I was bullshitting with Briggs. I feel a little more relaxed as I open it, ready to read about her running into Wren the way I ran into Briggs.
Nothing could have prepared me for the message that waits. My eyes dart over the words once, twice, but they don’t make sense. This can’t be happening. It has to be some kind of mistake.
Maya: Tucker, I am so sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. We both know what we have isn’t real, and there’s no future in it. That’s why I have decided to marry Clark after all. Forgive me, but I can’t keep up the charade any longer.
It might as well be written a foreign language. I’m that confused, stunned, unable to make any sense out of it. How can she do this? Things were so good… weren’t they? We sat and ate lunch together, and she didn’t give me a hint of what was going on in her head. No, it can’t be true. I won’t believe it.
I refuse to.
I don’t know if I’m trembling from shock or rage by the time my thumbs fly over the screen.
Me: You don’t get to do this. Not without talking it over with me first. Where are you? Why are you doing this?
I send a message but have to wonder if she’ll get back to me. She sounds like her mind is made up, but that can’t be possible! Did somebody say something? Did somebody threaten her? But who would now? We were over all of that… weren’t we? Or was I only telling myself that?
Just like I told myself she was as happy as I was. I convinced myself, because I didn’t want to believe anything else. And now here I am once again, feeling like a smacked ass because of her. Knowing I wasted my time, that she never had any intention of being with me.
Hot rage pumps its way through my system, compelling me to get in the truck and slam myself behind the wheel before jamming my foot on the gas. Fuck this. She wants to go? She wants to call this a charade? She can be my fucking guest. I’ve wasted enough of my time on her.
Never again. I should’ve listened to my fucking instincts from the beginning, but no, I had to convince myself she needed me. There I was, just a few minutes ago, getting off on the idea of protecting that ungrateful cunt. I’m almost blinded by the force of my rage, pounding the horn when some asshole decides to slow down before taking a turn in front of me. Wasting my time. I’ve wasted enough of it already. And I’ll never get it back, just like I’ll never get my fucking pride back. Because I handed it away, didn’t I? I handed it to her.
It’s a miracle I make it home alive, though it doesn’t seem so much like a miracle from where I’m standing as I almost burst into the house, ready to hurt something, ready to kill somebody. How dare she? That ungrateful bitch. Who the hell does she think she’s fucking with? I sat there smiling at her, trying to help her, wondering to myself about the cost of therapy and whether she can use it. Wanting her to be okay.
What a fucking waste. What a fucking joke I’ve turned myself into, all because of her. No matter how I warned myself, it wasn’t enough for me to be smart.
My feet carry me to Dad’s study without any conscious decision on my part. I’m going to explode. This is it—this is what will finally break me. His liquor cabinet is locked, but I know where he keeps the key, tucked inside one of the dozens of books lining his shelves. My hands shake with rage and make it a challenge to get the key into the lock, but I finally manage it and throw the doors open, grabbing for the scotch and uncapping it. The smooth liquid slides down my throat, and I savor the burn, gulping down more, punishing myself for my stupidity, my arrogance, for letting her use me. She made a fool of me.