Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 99623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“Please open the door. I need to know that you’re safe.”
I will myself to move. To speak. To do something to let my friend know I’m okay.
“I’ll get Melanie if I have to.” Her words are thick with worry—worry for me.
I can’t even begin to recall the last time someone worried over me.
It’s that worry that has my muscles unclenching enough to haul myself from the bed.
The second I unlock the door, Stella pushes through it, her eyes wide and her lips trembling. “Are you okay? Talk to me, Emmy. I’m begging you.”
“I’m...” I manage to croak, then the tears start anew.
“Babe, you’re seriously freaking me out. Do you... is there anyone I can call?” She slides her phone from her back pocket. “Your mom?”
“No!” I shout, knocking the slim device from her hand.
She stares at me in shock. “Okay. That’s fine. On one condition.”
“Anything.” My voice is desperate... pleading. “Anything!”
“You gotta talk to me.”
I shake my head back and forth, nerves outweighing logic. But Stella cuts her eyes at me in a way that has me changing my tune.
“Okay,” I whisper. “But... you can’t... you have to promise not to judge me. Do you promise?”
Stella tucks a strand of honey-colored hair behind her ear. “Yeah, I promise.”
“Can I change first?” I glance down at my outfit, and the ghost of Sterling’s citrusy male scent burns my nostrils. “And maybe shower, too?”
“Yup. I’ll be here when you finish.”
I nod my thanks and then grab a fresh pair of leggings and my coziest sweatshirt before darting to the bathroom.
I’m half tempted to throw out the clothes I’m wearing, but ultimately decide washing them will be sufficient. The thought of giving him more than I already have pains me. He doesn’t deserve any part of me—not my tears, not my worry, and definitely not my time.
With the water scalding hot, I step beneath the spray and scrub away the remnants of his touch until my skin is pink and raw.
I towel off, throw on my clothes, and twine my damp hair into a braid. I don’t feel better, per se, but I feel clean, and that’s something.
When I step back out in the living area, the scent of freshly brewed coffee greets me. “Thank you,” I murmur, graciously accepting the mug Stella passes me.
The warmth of the beverage comforts me; if only it could also give me courage for the talk we’re about to have.
“Let’s sit,” she says, nodding to the couch.
I sit pressed against the arm, my shoulders slightly hunched and my legs pulled up, with my coffee balanced between my knees and chest.
Stella offers me a throw blanket, but I decline, mostly because I don’t want to move. She claims the spot beside me and smiles a soft, watery smile. “Talk to me.”
“I don’t know where to start,” I admit, tears already pricking.
“I hear the beginning is a pretty good place.”
“My dad died when I was eight. I don’t even think grass had grown over his grave dirt when my mom remarried.” My heart constricts painfully in my chest, aching for a man I hardly remember. “Robert, my stepdad, he was okay. Rich as the devil. He never really paid me much mind.”
I shrug and then drain my mug, leaning forward to place it on the coffee table. “His son, Rob, on the other hand... he took notice of me, and not in a good way.”
Memories better left dead and buried assault me, flashing through my mind like some D-List horror movie reel.
“How old are you anyway?” asks the little boy with an angry mouth from the top of the stairs. He stands up there like some kind of lonely king, lording over the manor.
“Almost nine,” I tell him, glaring.
“So, eight then. A baby.”
I stomp my foot on the cold marble floor. Mother told me he’s a pre-teen, so we’re almost-kinda-sorta the same age. “I’m not a baby!”
“Then prove it.”
“How?” I ask, wanting more than ever for my new brother to like me.
I’ve always wanted a sibling, but Mom says you couldn’t pay her to have another baby. So, if a stepbrother is all I get, I’ll take it.
He starts down the hall. “Follow me,” he says, looking at me over his shoulder, his eyes daring me.
I dart up the stairs after him, my Mary Janes tap-tap-tapping as I run. “Hey! Wait up!”
“I don’t wait for babies.”
Huffing, I push my little legs faster. “I’m not a baby!”
“Yeah, you said that.” He slows his pace as we near a section of the house I’ve never explored. “Time to put your money where your mouth is.”
“What’s that mean?” I ask, trying to peer around him.
He smirks in that way boys do before they pull your pigtail. “It means you gotta show me you’re brave. Because I don’t hang out with losers.”
“Well, I’m not a loser either!”