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Thankfully, they’re far and few in between.
Instead of tossing it directly into the garbage, I carefully open the envelope like it’s a bomb seconds away from detonation and unfold the paper from inside. My heart jackhammers a painful staccato as I glance at the sparse lines that are painstakingly written. My father has never been a verbose man. Honestly, I’m not sure if he graduated from high school. He’s been a petty thief for most of his life before he got wrapped up in someone else’s bigger operation.
And he paid the price for it.
The first line knocks the breath from my lungs. It’s as if I’ve been kicked in the chest by a horse.
Wanted you to know that I’ve been released.
What the ever-loving fuck?
My head spins at this unexpected news. The prosecutor who put my father away said he would spend twenty years in prison. The guy murdered someone in cold blood. He belongs behind bars, locked up like the animal he is.
Where society is safe from him.
Where Mom is safe from him.
I’d like to see you.
Yeah, there’s not a chance in hell of that happening.
Unwilling to read the rest, I crumple the letter in my fist until it’s a tightly wadded up ball. I’m tempted to hurtle it across the room but fight back the impulse. That’s the difference between me and my old man. I have control and exert it at all times. I never allow myself to be driven by impulse. If I do something rash, it’s only because I’ve given it thought and decided it’s worth the risk of consequences.
Like hitting Justin.
Totally worth it.
Don’t regret it for a second.
And furthermore, I’d do it again.
I nearly jump out of my skin when delicate hands slide their way around my ribcage. For a heartbeat, I relax, assuming it’s Demi. After that fucked up letter, she’s exactly what I need. That girl is a balm for the soul. She’s the only person capable of making me forget the bullshit trying to press in at the edges.
Except...when the hands snaked around me come into view, the fingernails are painted bright pink. There is no way Demi would be caught dead wearing that color polish. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear polish. Whoever this girl is, her nails are long and lethal like talons. Demi’s are short and blunt. Kind of like mine. It’s difficult to play sports with long-ass claws. Especially soccer.
Since I’m not sure who I’m dealing with, I carefully wrap my fingers around slender wrists and pry them from my ribcage before turning around. What I find is a toothy brunette smiling coyly at me. She’s wearing a low-cut top that displays a ton of cleavage. Not wanting her to get the wrong impression, I take a hasty step in retreat. She’s got a hungry look about her as if she’ll devour me whole if I give her the green light to proceed. I’m half-afraid she’ll do it regardless.
“Hi, Rowan.” She flutters her fingers in a wave. “I was hoping to run into you.”
Since I live here, the odds of that happening were stacked in her favor.
“Hey.” My athletic bag is still slung across my shoulder. I slide it in front of me as a barrier. This girl is probably a foot shorter than I am and weighs half as much. It’s not like I couldn’t fight her off if I had to. But there’s a determined look in her eyes as if she’s a woman on a mission, and I’ve dealt with enough girls since stepping foot on campus to know which ones are more tenacious and have a harder time taking no for an answer.
I almost shake my head. That sounds crazy. Most guys would be more than happy to take this chick up on anything she’s offering for the night.
Guess I’m not most guys.
She steps toward me, closing the small amount of distance I’ve managed to put between us. Her titties bounce as she moves. I have some serious doubts that she’s wearing a bra.
Not that I’m looking.
Fine, so maybe I glanced. It’s kind of hard not to.
With a seductive grin, her manicured fingers graze over her flat belly and ribcage before settling on her chest. One pink-tipped finger swirls around her nipple until it hardens. She reaches up with her other hand, plucking at both breasts until the tips are poking out of the front of her T-shirt like headlights.
My tongue darts out to moisten my lips. “Ummm...”
“Trust me, they’re even more spectacular up close and personal.”
I clear my throat. “I’m, ah, not interested. But thanks.” I take another step away before the situation can escalate.
Her fingers go to the hem of her shirt. “Maybe you should see them for yourself.”
“No,” I shake my head, “that’s not really—”
“Or maybe you could pretend to have a little bit of self-respect and take the hint. He’s already told you that he’s not interested.”
