Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
I get up and follow him into the bedroom. He’s face down on the bed, head under the pillow, arms over his head. The sight of him catches me off guard for a moment and makes me want to stare. His body isn’t much different than any other man I’ve seen shirtless. And I’ve seen a lot of shirtless men in my life.
I don’t think a single boy in camp ever put on a shirt, now that I think about it. It was too fuckin’ hot in that jungle. I’d have gone shirtless too, if Maart had allowed it. But he didn’t. And it didn’t take long for me to stop wanting that. I hated being female when I was younger. I hated it. I wanted to be a boy so bad because they had such a better chance at living.
But then, after that last death fight, I realized that it was OK to be a girl. Because I could do it. Even smaller, lighter, weaker—I could still kill the boys when I had to. My last opponent was two years older than me. I was twelve and he was nearly fifteen. When I first saw him, I thought he was huge and I started to have doubts. But then Cort was there, whisperin’ in my ear, “He’s slow, Irina. You’re not slow. Snap his fuckin’ neck and let’s get the hell out of here.”
That’s what he said to me. And that’s how I won, too. It wasn’t quick. Took eight minutes, actually. But when Cort pulled me out of the ring when it was over—we never stayed for the ceremony—he winked at me and said, “That’s my girl.”
Maart wasn’t there. They didn’t let Maart come. Just the camp owner, which was Cort.
But he was waiting down the street with the makeshift ambulance, just in case I got seriously hurt, and he already knew I won. Cort had called him. Maart hugged me for nearly a minute straight. And he said, “That’s my girl.”
And I was like… Yeah, I’m a girl. And I can still kill these boys if I have to.
I never much thought about that again.
But now, here in Eason’s room, I’m thinking about how I am a girl again. Because I can’t stop looking at his fuckin’ body.
His head turns to the side and I can just barely see one eye open, staring at me. “What do you want?”
What do I want?
I’m not sure.
“I don’t want to go.” That’s not what he asked, but that’s the only answer I have at the moment.
He turns his head away from me again. No opinion, I guess.
And if he’s got no opinion one way or the other, then I guess I get to stay. So I walk over to his bed, climb in next to him, and this time he just scoots over a little to give me room.
I am lying face down too when his first question comes. “Are we gonna die of thirst together, Irina?”
“No. We’re just gonna sleep. Then we’re gonna get up and get that revenge.”
He chuckles just a little. But then he turns, grabs me, and pulls me up close to him. I lie still, unsure what to do.
“Don’t worry.” He says this right into my ear. “You’re just a pillow. I’m not gonna make ya have sex with me.” Then he laughs and settles. Like I really am just a pillow. Something to hold on to, to comfort him.
I don’t laugh. But I do smile. “I’m not… afraid of it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Irina, I don’t care what your sexual goals are. I really, really don’t.”
“Why not?”
He scoffs now. “You’re…”
“I’m what?”
“Just sleep.”
“No. I’m what?”
“You’re… you.”
“I don’t understand. I’m not attractive?”
“Come on. You’re… a kid.”
“I’m not a kid. I’m at least twenty. I get offers of sex all the time.”
“All the time?”
“Enough of the time for it to be a choice. And I have never been a kid. Not even when I was a kid.”
“Yeah.” He huffs a little air in what might be a laugh. “That I agree with.”
“So don’t call me a kid.”
“Sorry. You’re not a kid. But it doesn’t change anything.”
I hold my breath for a moment. I don’t understand this. I wish Nandy was here so I could ask her questions about what he’s saying, or rather, what he’s not saying.
Also, I’m confused at my confusion. Because I didn’t get into bed with him to have sex. I just got in so we could commiserate as we slept this whole sense-of-foreboding thing off.
“Irina?”
“Hmm?”
“Stop thinking so hard.”
“I’m confused.”
He turns a little, lifting his head up, which makes me turn too, to see what he’s doing. “Confused about what?”
“I’m not sure.”
We’re looking straight at each other. And his eyes narrow down a little. “Are you a virgin?”
I could lie, but why bother? So I nod.