Molly didn’t believe me when I told her that I didn’t—wouldnever—cheat on her, either.
My shoulders curl forward with the weight of, well, everything. My heart is heavy, my mind is busy, and my muscles ache. It’s been a long time since I’ve suffered from depression but I remember the darkness. And if things keep going the way they are…
I huff out a sigh. The faintly familiar tug of gloom pulls at my being.
I need to dust it off. Stop being dramatic. Stop anticipating things that haven’t happened yet. But mostly? I need to get my head the fuck back in the game before Coach benches my ass and I lose my spot on the team.
CHAPTER5
Savannah
Skimming my fingers along the spines, I suck in a deep breath through my nose. There is no greater scent than the smell of a bookshop. Fact. Freshly cut grass is a close second but the scent of bound together paper doesn’t trigger my allergies or require a big enough dose of antihistamine to sedate a bear. Therefore, books win. Books always win.
I don’tneednew books, but since when has that ever stopped me from dropping into a bookstore when I’m passing?
My phone buzzes in the butt pocket of my jeans, pulling my hand away from the perfectly printed spines lining the shelves.
Athena: Got another fucking ticket.
In the quiet of the store, I swallow a snort. I think this is her third traffic violation in three months. It’s partly because she drives like she’s Max Verstappen behind the wheel of his Formula One car and also because she drives a car that attracts attention. Alotof attention.
She says it’s because she’s a woman and the cops have little dick energy, but I’ve been in a car with her and barely lived to tell the tale. Agro—her midnight blue Nissan GT-R—is every guy’s wet dream. He’s her baby, and she whispers sweet nothings to him as she floors the gas.
She’s a woman with a deep need for speed who thinks speed limits are a suggestion and who doesn’t mind dropping cash on paying tickets. Just as well, since she’s a frequent flyer.
Vannah: I-380?
Athena: You know it.
Athena: I don’t think there’s a single person alive in Cedar Rapids who hasn’t gotten a ticket there.
Vannah: I’ve never gotten a ticket. Anywhere.
Athena: That’s ’cause you drive like Miss Daisy.
Vannah: I don’t know who that is.
Athena: My eyeballs hurt from the major roll they just did.
Her eyeballs must always hurt from eye rolling. It’s her raison d’être.
Someone shuffles into the aisle behind me as I shake my head at my bestie. She’s a fierce, strong, and independent woman, but she has a chip on her shoulder the size of Colorado, and a cursory relationship with the law—especially when it comes to breaking the speed barrier on I-380.
I turn to find a tall, gangly guy with a bright red face scanning the shelves. He opens and closes his mouth before rolling his lips between his teeth. Turns to the bookcase behind him and repeats the process.
“You okay?” I tilt my head. We’re in the steamy romance aisle, and from the tiny beads of sweat forming along his hairline, this is the last place on earth this guy wants to be.
He flicks a glance my direction before looking back at the books, then back to me, back to the books. His whole body is taut as though he’s ready to bolt at any given moment, and my insides hurt at his discomfort.
“I can’t see what I’m looking for.”
I’d figured that much, but I don’t want to spook the guy with my glib sarcasm, so I nod. “Maybe I can help you find it.”
He’s got to be a freshman, eighteen, nineteen years old at most. He checks over both shoulders, for what I’m not sure. I’ve never felt safer than when I’m inside the walls of a bookstore. There’s something oddly comforting about being surrounded by generations of stories.
“I’m…uh…” He scrubs at the back of his neck so hard I’m scared he’s going to scrape his skin off.
Is he a criminal? What is this guy’s deal?
