Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
It’s hard to maintain matching his gaze, so I look down to where I’m almost done rubbing in the antiseptic when I hear “No.”
I so want to look at him, but I can’t or I’ll lose my courage. “Is it because some time has passed?”
“Eight years,” he clips, and even though I’m looking at his cut rather than at his face, I still know he said that with a clenched jaw.
“Of course, I-I know that.” I swallow, keeping my eyes on the task. “But it sounded like a… a good plan. A goal. A dream. And I… I was just wondering if you could maybe still do that.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
A few seconds go by, and I’m finishing up with putting the last tape on a fresh bandage while losing hope. But then he says, with a voice so tight and low that I have to strain to hear it, “Because I don’t get to.”
“What?”
“Because I don’t get to buy land and be done with the Grayson-Turner bullshit. Not when the reason I wanted to do it is gone.”
I snap my eyes up then. And good thing I’m done with dressing his wound, because there was no way I could’ve continued with a steady hand after getting a look at his face. It’s harsh and tight, dangerous, but that’s not the reason why I’m afraid or why there’s a deep clench in my belly. It’s the fact that his eyes look… desolate.
They look vacant.
They’re dark as always, but there’s an emptiness to them that I’ve never seen before. It’s like all the fire inside of him has leached out and he’s gone cold. I have this bizarre feeling that if I looked now, the brand would have disappeared from his body. That nothing hot and scalding ever touched him to begin with.
Which is ridiculous. All of this is ridiculous. But I can’t help it. I can’t help the thoughts running through my mind and how my entire body shakes with the urge to get closer to him. I stay put, though, and ask, “A girl?”
That seems to jerk him awake from whatever place he’d gone off to. And thank God—thank fucking God—his eyes don’t seem empty anymore. They glitter, and even if I can see it’s anger at my question, I don’t mind it. “That’s enough of your questions.”
“I was just”—I go to take my hands away from him, but he stops me by wrapping his fingers around my wrist again—“wondering.”
“How about,” he goes, squeezing my wrist, “you answer some of my questions for a change?”
Unease washes through me, and I struggle to get away. “What questions?”
He only tightens his hold on me. “Your father.”
My heart jumps in my throat. Why are we talking about him? I don’t think we’ve ever talked about him. As in, specifically. Where he’s staring at me like I’m under a spotlight, a lens that he’s peeking through. And I’m good at lying—of course I am—but I don’t think I’d be good at it under this kind of scrutiny. So I try to break out of his hold. Even though I know I won’t be able to. His grip isn’t bruising but it’s firm, and I’m not getting out of it until he allows me to.
Still, I keep trying as I ask, “W-what about him?”
“You know this, about dressin’ wounds and shit, because of him,” he declares. “Because of what he did to your mother.”
I swallow, my unease still not going away. In fact, for some reason, it’s growing by the passing second. Not only because of my deception, but also because there are certain things I don’t like to talk about. Or to be asked about.
“I don’t know why we’re talking about this,” I say, looking anywhere but in his eyes. “You already know that. And you already know everything there is to know about my father, because you almost k-killed him eight years ago and you’re hell-bent on destroying him, so I don’t—”
“And you,” he cuts me off.
“Me what?”
“He did this to you.”
I was in the process of twisting my hand in his grip when he spoke, and I go still. Did he just… How did he know?
“Didn’t he?” he prods when I don’t give him the answer.
I wince and resume my struggle to get away from him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His features darken. “He did.”
“Why would you even think—”
“Because a man fucked up enough to beat his wife is not gonna take mercy on his daughter.”
“Can you please let me go?”
“How often?”
“I just want you to let me go.”
“How often,” he repeats, his voice so low that I can see his chest vibrate with it, “did your father beat you?”
My heart is racing and racing and freaking racing. No one knows anything about this. I never ever talk about it. I try to never ever think about it, let alone talk about it with anyone. Not even Peyton, who knows every single thing about me and my life. Well, not every single thing, not this, but everything else. Over the years, we’ve bonded over evil fathers and negligent mothers and how crazy it is that we not only share similar looks but similar stories as well. Except she doesn’t know the whole story.