Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
If my mother has any energy, she’s going to use it to kill me the second I walk through the door, I’m certain.
“I wish I could take you home with me,” he whispers, his breath hot against my flesh. A spray of goose bumps peppers my arms.
“Me too,” I exhale. My hand rests over his, guiding it beneath the hem of my dress, closer to the heat between my legs. My heart pounds in my teeth and my mind frees itself of all logic and reason. My mother could be watching from the living room window, and I wouldn’t notice or care. All that matters in this moment is him.
I am drunk—with lust, with excitement, with possibilities.
His hand slides away. His mouth leaves mine. He draws in a long breath and runs a palm along the glossy leather steering wheel.
“Take me home with you,” I begged him. “I don’t care if I get in trouble. I’ll deal with her tomorrow.”
It’s the strangest anomaly when you’re not thinking clearly and you know it. I blame it on the champagne. And the knots of unfulfilled anticipation tangling my insides. I’ve never wanted something—or someone—as much as I want him.
It just feels right.
“Sophie, I had a great time with you tonight,” he says, an air of regret in his voice like a boy about to dump a girl. “But this can never be … anything.”
“I don’t understand.”
The inside of his car is humid with desire, thick with discomfiture. I crack the window and swallow a lungful of crisp night air.
“I’m twice your age,” he says.
“That didn’t stop you from asking me on a date. It didn’t keep you from putting your hands all over me tonight.” I lift my hand to my neck, fingertips trailing all the places still warm from his kiss.
“I saw a beautiful girl and I lost my mind.” He sighs and looks at me sideways. “I wanted to remember what it was like to feel young again.”
“You’re not that old.” I huff and glance away.
“I’m old enough to be your father.”
I roll my eyes. I don’t like to think of my father—ever, and I especially don’t want to think of him in this moment. He walked out of our lives when I was three and my mother was six months pregnant with my baby sister. As far as I’m concerned, he isn’t just dead to me, he never existed in the first place.
“When’s your birthday, Sophie?” he asks. Does he want to buy me something? Is he trying to pay me off so he feels better?
“I don’t want anything from you.” I reach for the door handle. I don’t see what it matters. He places his hand on my arm, gently stopping me.
“Fair enough,” he says.
“I should go. My mom’s waiting.”
“Sophie …” He says my name soft, like he doesn’t want me to go yet—quite the contradiction from a moment ago when he was all but discarding me.
I turn to him, peering through a sideways glance. “You still haven’t told me your real name.”
I asked him again after dinner, when we were dancing in a crowd of other black-clad, masked guests, and he leaned in to whisper that he would tell me later. On the car ride home, he played music from a chill playlist on his phone and held my hand. The volume was too loud to speak over, and I found myself wanting to soak in every second of the journey back to my humble apartment on Flor Street, on the other side of the river.
I suppose it doesn’t matter what his name is.
Tonight was a one-and-done kind of thing.
He wanted me on his arm, he got me, now it’s over.
Removing my arm from his tender grasp, I leave him with a stinger, “I had a lot of fun with you tonight … whoever you are.”
I hope he chokes on his conscience.
I tug on the door handle. A burst of night air blankets my lower legs as I step out. My feet ache and burn from dancing all night. I wonder how long I’ve been in pain but too drunk-in-lust to notice?
“Nolan,” he says. “My name is Nolan Ames.”
The name is vaguely familiar, like I’ve seen it on billboards or the side of semi-trucks or something. Maybe an ad on TV? It’s hard to know with my mind so foggy.
“When is your birthday?” he asks again.
“Why?”
“Because I …” he begins to speak then stops. “I want to see you again.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I slam his passenger door. The window glides down, smooth and sleek. While he wasn’t looking earlier, I Googled his car out of curiosity because I’d never seen anything like it before. I wasn’t even sure how to pronounce it.
According to my research, this thing costs half a million dollars.
I don’t know that I’ll even see that kind of money in my lifetime.