Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
More than that. I couldn’t tell him the truth. It would’ve been so easy to. Guess what, asshole? I have cancer. As ignorant and cruel as he can be, I doubt even he could find a way to come out looking like a good guy if he knew what I’ve been fighting.
Somehow, even having to get on my knees and suck him off was preferable to having my secrets spilled. I guess that says something about me, doesn’t it? It must. I’m that desperate to keep my condition a secret. I would even let him take advantage of me that way, no matter how it disgusted me.
By the time I reach my car, disgust is the least of my problems. I was already exhausted and weak earlier, wondering if I should’ve stayed home. Now I’m completely drained. I can’t even imagine putting the car in drive once the key’s in the ignition. It’s too much effort.
Dammit. Just like Grandma said, I have to stop myself way before I’ve reached my limit. But then how was I supposed to know I would end up giving my first blowjob today? Against my will, which seems to have drained me even more. The emotional weight makes my body feel heavier than it already did, until I have to close my eyes for a minute to gather my strength.
My head touches the seat, and I release a deep breath, willing myself to relax bit by bit. Not that it takes much effort—I’m practically limp by the time I inhale, my head rolling to the side, the sounds outside the car fading to a gentle buzz. What am I going to do?
What am I going to do? I asked myself that question in the doctor’s office the day I got my results. Sitting in a molded plastic chair in a room with ugly fluorescent lights and a scuffed tile floor. The roaring in my ears muffled the doctor’s voice and that single question playing on a loop. Grandma held my hand, gripping a little tighter all the time. I barely felt the pressure.
What am I going to do? Sitting in a funeral parlor. My chair was in the front row. I felt the stares of family and friends on the back of my head. Poor thing, no parents, so young. And they’d keep on clicking their tongues and shaking their heads, but they went back to their lives, didn’t they? They promised Grandma and Grandpa they’d help with me, but they drifted away once the shock wore off. Once I wasn’t the hot new tragedy anymore.
Right there in the doctor’s office, I swore I wouldn’t let myself be anybody’s tragedy ever again. It’s too tempting to believe they’ll keep caring even when it isn’t convenient anymore.
Tap tap tap. “Hey.” Tap tap tap. “Yo. Emma.”
Oh, shit. I fell asleep.
Usually, my eyes would snap open if somebody startled me awake by tapping on a window only inches from my head. He’s not exactly being gentle about it, either. But then, why would he? Easton hasn’t shown me any gentleness yet. Why start now?
His face is the last one I want to see when I slowly open my eyes, since it looks so damn much like Preston’s. I can’t help but remember his smug look after he finished. Like he was proud of himself for doing something as involuntary as coming. Because that’s not what it’s about for him. It’s about making me do it. That’s what he craves.
Does he know? Do they compare notes on their assaults?
He mimes rolling the window down, and I roll my eyes in response before touching the button on the door. I only ease it down a couple of inches before asking, “What do you want?”
“For starters, I was wondering why you’re sitting here with the car idling, completely passed out.” Cocking his head to the side, he asks, “Are you on something?”
Yes. Chemotherapy. “Are you asking if I’m on drugs? Jesus Christ.”
“Are you? Because why else would you, like, pass out?”
“I’m just tired.”
“Still sick from last night?” You’d think he would sound even a little sympathetic, but you’d be wrong. “Why did you even come in today?”
“Are you writing a report on me?” I snap. It feels good, watching him react in surprise. Maybe he’s even offended, poor baby. I’m sure he and his twin don’t usually care about who they’ve offended or wounded or even traumatized. I’m probably not even the first person.
“Fine,” he mutters, standing up straight with his hands raised like he’s the one who has any right to be offended. “Remind me not to give a shit.”
“Please, don’t let me stop you from getting back to your life.” It has to be the adrenaline that gives me the burst of energy I need to put the car in drive. I have to get out of here. Of all people to find me this way, did it have to be him?