Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
“Medical condition.” Giving the letter I a swirl rather than a dot prompts me to grin wider. “It’s called Hypergraphia. The cause is typically temporal lobe epilepsy; however, I’m special. They aren’t entirely sure what causes mine. I’m also a fun study because I don’t just have an overwhelming compulsion to write words but to draw as well.” Unsatisfied with the size of the spiral has me extending it rather than moving onward in the word. “It’s rare you get the combo of the two, but it does happen. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. When it hits, it hits. I try to keep paper and journals around me for this reason – at all times – but that’s not always ideal. So, I draw on whatever is closest.”
“Like my arm.”
“You took away my magazine.”
“My magazine,” Kipp playfully pokes back. “And is that why you always keep a pen on you?”
“Yeah.” I give the letter a nod of approval and begin the d. “It’s also why I need to go to the store again in the morning before work. I’m on my last two.” Finishing the three-letter nickname has me instantly beginning the process all over again. “Whenever I’m traveling across the country and I stop for gas, I always a buy pack, so I never run out.”
“Like a smoker.”
“Not sure which habit is dirtier, Kid, but I know which one is better for my lungs.”
His light laughter has me sinking my teeth into my bottom lip to stop from swooning.
What is it with this guy?
How does he keep getting me to sigh and blush and confess the very shit I keep vaulted at the pit of my soul?
He’s like a car obsessed Prince Eric and no matter how hard I try or fight, I can’t resist following him around this tiny castle and giving him everything he asks for.
Which is the last thing I fucking need.
I shouldn’t be adding reasons to the stick around side of the spreadsheet.
I should be searching for additional ones to bail.
Although, technically, I already have plenty of those.
That column just needs to stay ahead.
Not be even with the other.
Or worse.
Get behind it.
“Growing up, I would just collect pens. Had a huge stash I kept under my mattress.”
“Like contraband.”
“That word has so many syllables, did you move up a grade level and forget to tell me?”
Kipp laughs a little louder and lowers his stretched-out arm to deliver a playful swat to my ass.
“I wasn’t exactly raised rollin’ in the dough, so I learned early how to get creative about shit. Finding random pens in the hallway. Stockpiling everyone’s old notebooks at the end of the school year. Purposely forgetting supplies in class in order to score more.” This time I work to turn the K into a wrench shape. “Aside from all of that, I also taught myself to doodle on the underside of objects to reduce the risk of being caught vandalizing, the inside of clothing to keep the outside looking professional, and tighter, small groupings on the skin to give off a tattoo appearance as opposed to the ‘not all there’ person who walks into the business lunch with writing all over their arms.” I give his appendage a little blow to help the ink dry faster. “Thankfully, nowadays, I never have to go to lunches or brunches or bullshit kiss ass happy hours. Contract work not only lets me work remotely, it prevents me from having to play show pony.”
“I’ll show you how many ponies I have under my hood anytime…”
There’s no stopping me from meeting his eyes again on a snicker. “Was it sixth grade? Did I miss your elementary school graduation? I don’t remember seeing an email for it this morning.”
Another good-natured pop is given to my ass; however, his hand lingers on a cheek afterward. “How about I grab you some colored pens and fancy journals when I’m in Crystal Waters later this week?”
Ugh.
That. word.
Fuck. That. One. Single. Word.
Fuck that one single word and everything that comes with it.
I’m not someone’s trophy.
Or prized possession.
Or buried fucking treasure you murder your fellow pirate mate over to keep all to yourself.
And I don’t care what the man hunting me says.
I know his frat brother didn’t randomly fall off that yacht and drown after trying to help give me an exit strategy to the living nightmare I was desperate to leave.
He was pushed.
And the point to all those that were watching our relationship was proven.
“I don’t need fancy shit, Kipp.” Scooting slightly out of his grasp forces him to move his hand. “I don’t need anything.” Additional annoyance at having my previous drawing pattern interrupted has me sitting crossed legged to write on my own ankle. Dig into my own flesh harder than I was his. Angrier. More anxiously. To present myself with new pain to pacify the other. “I damn sure don’t need anyone.” Scribbling the opening lines to “Better Off Alone” by Alice Deejay thoughtlessly begins. “And above all else I don’t need anything from anyone that isn’t Me, Myself, and I.” The statement transitions my lyrics quoting to the G-Eazy song by the same title. “I can and have been taking care of me just fucking fine.” The speed of the scrawling increases. “Thank you very much.”