Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
I squint again, trying to get a better look. That dumb fuckhead looks a little familiar. He is tall and really built-up, his sweater practically ripping apart like when Bruce Banner transforms into the Incredible Hulk. He has mud brown hair and … I squint again, catching a glimpse of raging acne on his neck, the red skin painful and slightly moist and oozing.
His identity springs into my head just then. It’s Chip McCreighton, Mr. Hot Shot football player from Spencer. That dude followed Evie to college? What the fuck? This is a good school; how the fuck had he been admitted? But as another lug head comes up and punches Chip on the shoulder, the two guys like walking, talking refrigerators, it occurs to me. Chip must be a special athlete admit. The school enrolled him for football, not because of his intellectual achievements.
But all I care about is my girl. My skin crawls at the way Chip’s arm is slung possessively around her waist and how he ushers her into the classroom, his hand sliding down slowly to almost grab her ass. I practically blow my top off then. That ass is mine to grab, mine to touch and fondle, and that fucker has just manhandled my property. Hands off, motherfucker!
A group of coeds turn to look at me, their eyes wide and shocked, and I realize that I’ve literally been growling in my chest, my gaze murderous and my hands clenched in fists. Fuck, I need to get ahold of myself before I’m escorted off campus in cuffs.
But fuck. I turn and slowly walk back to my car, my body trembling and shaking with rage and repressed need. I crave Evie. A year apart had been too much, it had been too fucking much, and I’m ready to explode at the seams. Specifically at the seam at my crotch. My dick is hard and aching. The mere sight of the voluptuous girl is enough to drive me into a frenzy and transform me into an animal. I have to see the girl, have to talk to her, have to make her understand why I’d gone missing … and why we should be together again.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Evie
“Hey,” I say, coming back to my dorm room, the door shutting behind me.
Cara simply grunts in response, barely looking up. Her mousy brown head is buried in another book of Harry Potter fan fiction. Now don’t get me wrong, I love Harry Potter, but I’m not so crazy as to be reading offshoots of the main story – made-up adventures about minor characters who attend Hogwarts with Harry and Hermione. Those stories are too far-fetched, and besides, we are in college now. There are, like, eight books to be read for each class, loads of homework, and a shit ton of activities. I can’t be spending hours each day re-living my childhood.
But Cara is different. She’s barely verbal most days, so I just sling my backpack onto my desk and start riffling through my bureau, looking for my swimsuit. I’d taken up swimming since starting college. The pool is one of the only places where I can relax. The beautiful light blue water, the monotony of doing laps again and again, just me and the black line at the bottom, calms me. And the truth is, it helps get my mind off Stone. Or more accurately, it’s a neutral place – a place where I’m alone with my thoughts and can think about my ex-lover as much as I want without feeling guilty, where I can let myself go and not berate myself for dreaming about him.
So I pull my swimsuit on, struggling to get the tight nylon over my curves. Oh fuck, I’ve gained weight again, and the one-piece is super small, digging into my shoulders. The leg cut-outs are so high, they almost hit my belly button, and my boobs leak out the sides. Well, a tight suit is supposed to be good for racing, at least. Less drag in the water. Okay, so I’m not exactly an Olympic swimmer, but still, it makes me feel better.
I throw on a cover-up and some flip-flops and am just about to head out the door when Cara finally looks up.
“You got a call,” she drawls.
I turn. “Thanks,” I reply tightly, trying to be patient. “From whom? When?”
But she just shakes her head slowly. “Can’t remember, sorry.” She turns back to her book, burying her nose in that massive tome.
I put down my gym bag and place my hands on my hips, suddenly pissed. “Cara, I need you to take messages. I know landlines aren’t popular anymore because people generally use cells, but still, when I get a call, I expect more detail than ‘you got a call.’ I need to know who it was and when they called. It’s not too much to ask, you know,” I finish huffily.