Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
“I have something to tell you, and I don’t want you to get upset.”
“Then why would you tell me in the first place?”
I stretch my arms and leisurely row my way to the edge of the pool with long strokes. I slide under the float and take the stairs leading to the deck, grab a towel, dry off, and slip on a skirt and cute tank top.
“You keep doing things that upset me, like hiding trips to New York and homeschooling plans for Bailey and adopting Penn.” I shake off my long, wet hair. “But it’s not preventing you from doing them anyway. Tell me, Mother, how many more secrets are you planning to keep from me?”
She slides her sunglasses down, and our eyes meet. Her greens sparkle with unshed tears.
“One,” she whispers. “One more. How many secrets are you keeping from me, Daria?”
I think about Via’s letter. About Prichard. About Penn. I shake my head. “I need to go.”
“Daria…”
I pick up my phone and storm into the house, then grab my car keys and dart to the front door. She is on my heels, begging me to stop. But all I can think about is her and Bailey planning trips to New York and sitting together every day—all day—at home while I go to school, or college, or anywhere else that’s out of their hair.
Penn is descending the stairs. Why is he always here when he doesn’t have practice? Why doesn’t he spend time with his daughter? He stops on the landing, his wide chest blocking my way. It rattles with his soft, taunting laughter that usually sends hungry chills to my bones. He is wearing a black hoodie with a white skeleton hand giving you the middle finger—the hole is somewhere beneath it—and torn black skinny jeans that hang too low on his ass. Unlaced sneakers. Rumpled locks. Pure perfection.
“Where to, Hurricane Daria?”
Tears glittering in my eyes, I push him off and duck sideways, slipping through the door. I jump into my car and start it. What is Mel planning now? Moving with Bailey to London? Sending me to an out-of-state college to get rid of me? Sell me to the mafia? I wouldn’t put anything past her at this point. Before I know what’s happening, Penn jumps into the passenger seat beside me. I slap the dashboard. “Fuck! Leave me alone.”
Mel stumbles out the front door, scrambling. I don’t understand why. She’s been doing her best to stick it to me for months now.
“Hysteria doesn’t suit you, Skull Eyes. Where are we going?”
“I don’t know.”
“My favorite destination.”
“Why are you doing this?” I moan, pain slicing my voice so it’s all cracked. Mel gets to the car, rounds it, and slaps my window with her open palms. I realize it’s too late to kick Penn out.
“Daria!”
I kick the BMW into drive and watch her disappear in the side mirror. I’m driving past manicured neighborhoods and downtown Todos Santos. Rolling onto the highway and bolting between golden dunes. I drive until there is nowhere else to drive to. Belle and Sebastian are on the radio, asking me if I’m feeling sinister. I pretend Penn is not here, and he helps by not talking.
A white and blue gas station sign twinkles in the distance of yellow nothing. Neither of us acknowledges that it’s my birthday today. That I didn’t get a cake, or a card, or a hug. That my family thought they could skip this day just because they agreed to let me have a party in a few weeks. Every time my mother calls and the Bluetooth starts playing the Jaws sound effect—her personal ringtone, complete with a picture of her flashing a toothy smile—Penn sends it to voicemail.
“Pull in.” Penn pops his gum.
“Why?”
“Beer.”
“How, exactly?” I roll my eyes.
He raises his ass from the seat and takes out his wallet, yanking out what looks like a fake ID.
“Ghetto,” I cough into my fist.
He smirks, sliding the ID between my open thighs, swiping it across my slit like it’s a credit card.
I suck in a breath. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Showing you that I might be a punk, but you’re the hideous little monster who is falling for him.”
Pulling into the station, I shove him out of the car. I mull his stupid words over as I watch him through the 7-Eleven window. I’m not falling for him. I’m not. He saunters coolly to the register with a six-pack of Budweiser and potato chips. Then he asks for a pack of cigarettes even though he doesn’t smoke anymore. When he slides back into the car, I ask why the cigarettes.
“An experiment.” He throws a chip into his mouth and chews. “Pull out, birthday girl. I’ll tell you where to drive.”
Following his directions, I don’t bother asking where we’re going. The truth is, it doesn’t really matter where he is taking us. He and Dad are the only people I would follow.