Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
He shook his head. “Mental like your mother.”
I took a step toward him, watching as his face twisted in confusion. I never invaded his personal space. But now my nose was dangerously close to his and I saw everything swimming in his light blue eyes. I saw myself in his features, in his clenched jawline, in the little curve of our noses, in the pastiness of our skin—mine diluted by my tan and freckles and youth—his still stern white. And for the first time, I realized that maybe I was him. A product of something horrible, that was going to give birth to more awful things.
“I don’t care if you leave her for someone else. I know I can’t convince you to stay, and even if I could—half the time I think she’s still like this because of you. But I will tell you this—if you decide to parade your new toy around town and humiliate my mother, there will be consequences. As for Theo—not Theodore, Theo—and Trent Rexroth, I am sick and tired of asking you how high every time you tell me to jump. I will get you the goddamn flash drive, Daddy Dearest, but in return, you will sign all the legal documentation I have stashed in the drawer of that useless vanity you bought me when I was twelve and set Theo and me free. Agree to this right now, Jordan, or we don’t have a deal. And please, before you say anything, never underestimate a broken person. We’re unpredictable, because once you’re broken—what’s one more crack?”
The words left my body like a hurricane, and after I was done, I was left panting. I felt the disloyalty for Luna and the unfaithfulness to Trent in my bones. I was sick to my stomach, knowing how it was going to affect Camila, but things were getting too complicated. I needed to run away with Theo and disappear. SoCal wasn’t the only place in the world with good beaches. We could live somewhere else. Build a life. We could sit on a porch I hadn’t even seen before, watching the sunset, eating pistachio ice cream, laughing. Making good memories and bottling them in our minds. We could.
“Edie,” my father said. I looked straight at him, then past him. He knew that I’d meant it. Besides, something told me that he was done with me, anyway. With me, with my mom, with Theo. Getting the flash drive and cutting me out of his life was a two birds, one stone situation. Of course, he’d say yes.
“Get me that flash drive”—he leaned close to me, his cheek pressing against mine—“and you will get your future with Theodore.”
“Keep your lovers in the dark, where sin should be hidden,” I reminded him. This time it was me who held his wrist. I couldn’t wrap my fingers around his cold flesh—like a snake’s dead skin—but I’d hit home this time. The tightness of his jaw told me so.
“True Van Der Zee,” he muttered, shaking me off like I was a wet stray cat in the pouring rain.
Because at that moment, I was the kid who’d stared at the dying dog and didn’t blink.
At that moment, I was ruthless.
At that moment, I was the Van Der Zee I never thought I’d become.
I hated that person. But that person hated Jordan much more than she feared him.
My stomach growled for the eighteenth time that morning, loud enough to be heard even through the sound of the crashing Pacific waves.
“God, Gidget, what the fuck? Eat a goddamn energy bar.” Bane rummaged in his bag and threw a protein bar at me, scowling. His sullen expression didn’t melt one bit when I walked over and tucked the bar back into his backpack, sliding into my flip-flops and hoisting my board up to rest on my head the rest of the way to the promenade. I didn’t not eat to spite him. I couldn’t eat. The nausea ate at my stomach, making acid dance on the back of my tongue. Ever since I’d told my father I was going to retrieve that flash drive with God-knows-what on it, I’d felt sick. Not just physically, but mentally. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was feeling for Trent, but I was more than certain no one in the world deserved what I was about to serve him.
Bane snatched his radio from the sand, “Pacific Coast Highway” by Kavinsky blasting from the speakers. He grabbed my board and tucked it under his arm, carrying both our surfboards up to the boardwalk. I followed him on failing legs, the bile still fresh and sour in my throat. When we got to the walkway, he greeted homeless people living in makeshift cardboard homes on the grassy hills by the shops. He knew everyone on this beach. Every failing artist who shoved their CD into people’s hands, and every new salesman in the weed, surfing, and bike shops. Bane was still shirtless and barefoot when he walked me over to my car. A not-so-secret donor had paid my pending invoice at the shop and they’d finally released my Audi, new cylinder and all. Bane turned around and leaned against my passenger door when we got to my car, folding his arms over the angry dragon on his chest. His lethargic jade eyes scanned me with amused disinterest, and he tilted his head, like I was a weird mystical creature he couldn’t figure out.