Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“Believe it, don’t believe it,” I say. “I don’t give a shit. I just know I’m clean.” I point at myself. “You, on the other hand”—I make sure I look him up and down—“who the fuck knows.”
“Yeah, and how do you know that?” He folds his arms across his chest.
I point at him. “Because, unlike you, this was the first time I’ve had sex in eight years.” I ignore the look of shock on his face as I turn to walk to the bathroom. I don’t want to hear whatever shit he’s going to say, so I slam the door behind me. Leaning my back against it, I look down at my hands shaking as I slide to the floor. At the same time, I hear the front door open and then slam. I close my eyes and try to make the nausea pass by breathing in and out slowly.
Closing my eyes, I hope it makes the nausea go away, but instead, all I can see is Charlie over me. Yelling at me to open my eyes, his eyes looking into mine as he fucked me. I shake my head to stop the images as I get up and walk over to the shower, turning it on before taking the sweater off and seeing a reflection of myself in the mirror. I avoid even looking at myself before stepping in and washing away the smell of sex and Charlie. Two things I never thought I would say in the same sentence. I even wash my hair since he touched it. Every single inch of me washed twice, for good measure.
I wrap one of the towels around myself before stepping out and wrapping my hair. I walk out of the bedroom, taking one look at the bed and ripping the cover off to the floor before the sheets follow it. Gathering them in my arms, I move over to the washing machine and stuff the sheets in and then the cover. I set it on heavy-duty wash before going to the kitchen and starting my coffee. Grabbing the mug, I walk back into the bathroom to start blow-drying my hair. I ignore even looking at the bed, just like I avoid looking into my eyes in the mirror.
But now I’m standing in front of it as I take the towel off my head, combing my hair, moving to the side and seeing the reddish-purple mark. My hand drops the comb as my fingers come up to touch it, and I immediately get sick to my stomach. I lean over and vomit out the coffee I was drinking. I dry heave for a few minutes before I stand back up, trying not to think about the fact I just fucked my best friend’s boyfriend. Sorry, scratch that, my dead best friend’s boyfriend.
The whole time I’m getting ready, I think about how stupid I was last night. How it took one touch from him to light my body on fire. How it took a kiss and for that one kiss I forgot I hated him, but how it took one minute to make me hate him even more.
I put some concealer on the mark on my neck before getting dressed in white jeans, grabbing a light denim-blue button-up shirt, pulling up the sleeves, and tying the front in a knot before grabbing my white sneakers. I make my way to the dryer and put the sheets in there and hang the quilt up.
I get into the office later than I have in the last week. I pull open the door and step in to see my father behind the desk. “Hey there, sweetheart,” he greets me, and I smile at him. He looks a little tired today, more so than yesterday.
“Hey yourself,” I reply, walking over and bending to kiss his cheek. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here.” He laughs. “I would ask you the same thing.”
I sit in the chair in front of the desk. “Same,” I tell him as he looks over the invoices in front of him, closing the book so he thinks I won’t see them.
“Did you eat?” I ask, and he leans back in his chair.
“You know I’m the parent in this relationship.” He chuckles, folding his arms over the book in front of him.
“Is that a yes or a no?” I raise my eyebrows, waiting for him to answer me.
“I was going to grab something when I came in,” he admits. “I wasn’t feeling so hot this morning.”
I get up right away. “I’ll go get you something from the bakery,” I tell him. “What do you want to eat?”
“Something light,” he says, leaning back and taking money out of his pocket. “Here.”
“It’s on me. It’s not every day that you can buy your father breakfast.” I make a joke out of it. “I’ll be back.”