Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
But then I wake up and I’m about to scream when a hand is pressed on my mouth and I realize — finally, finally — who it is.
I realize that it’s the man I’ve been looking for myself.
My already wide eyes go even wider at the welcome sight of him and my body goes loose.
As soon as it does, he takes his hand off and I breathe out, “Oh God, I was… You scared me.”
He studies my flushed face with a tight jaw that only grows tighter the longer he stares at me. “I know.”
I swallow, looking into his harsh and belligerent eyes. “I was looking for you.”
“Why?”
I know he’s angry. I know that.
I know seeing me with those guys made him furious. I know how possessive he is. How territorial. Last time some guys simply talked to me and he got agitated. He’s definitely not going to handle well someone touching me, and that just makes me want to slap myself.
Because what was I thinking?
How did I think that it was okay to be my parents’ puppet? That it was okay to do their bidding, not sketching when I’m home, going on unwanted campus tours, meeting people I don’t want to meet, posing for cameras, dancing with guys I don’t want to dance with.
Why did I think it would bring peace?
It never brings peace. No matter what I do, my parents are never pleased with me. They are never happy.
And look what I did in my foolish pursuit of that.
I suffered myself, yes.
But I made him suffer too. I hurt him.
The only person, other than my friends, who believes in me. Who supports me.
Who inspired me not once but twice now.
And I need to tell him that. I need to tell him that I’m going to stop.
So I grab onto his white dress shirt, my chest still heaving. “I’m sorry. Those guys… I didn’t know who they were. My mom introduced me to them and —”
His nostrils flare and he slaps a hand on the door up above my head. “Your mom.”
Even though he’s all threatening and angry right now, leaning over me, covering me with his dark shadow, I feel safe for the first time since I left St. Mary’s yesterday.
I feel whole.
I feel soft and feminine and pretty.
Twisting my hands in his shirt, I say, “Yes but I want you to know that —”
He leans even closer, his wildly breathing chest pushing into mine, as he cuts me off and says, “What about this dress? Your mom made you wear this dress too.”
I hate, absolutely hate to admit it, but I answer him. “Yes. But when I wore it I was different and —”
Again he doesn’t let me talk as he fires me with a sharp, biting question. “Why?”
“Conrad, please, listen —”
“Answer me,” he bites out, his chest pushing into me more, rubbing my nipples with his harsh breaths.
I don’t want to.
Because I know it will only stoke his anger. It will only agitate him more.
But I know he won’t let this go.
So biting my lip, I tell him, “Because she thinks… she thinks my breasts look big and…”
“And what?”
“And guys like that.”
My heart squeezes in my chest.
My belly squeezes too. Something deep inside of me just twists and writhes at the effect my answer has on him. At the utter fury and anguish I see in his eyes. And I try again.
I try to tell him, “But I’m not going to —”
“Why?”
“Conrad —”
“No,” he thunders. “Fuck no. Not one word. I don’t want to hear anything other than the answer to my question, you got that? I’ve just seen you with another guy. I’ve just motherfucking witnessed a teenage horndog touching what’s mine. I told you guys are horndogs, yeah? So if you say anything other than what I’ve asked you, I’m going to lose it. I’m barely, barely, hanging on by a thread. Just answer why. Why does your mom want to dress you up in what guys like?”
And I can’t refuse him.
I can’t.
Because I realize that this is my turn to apologize now. It’s my turn to make it up to him for putting him through the bullshit.
So I’ll tell him later. I’ll tell him that he was right and today is the day that I stop punishing myself.
For now, I’ll soothe his anger. I’ll give him what he wants.
I’ll apologize.
“Because if I wear what they like, they might end up liking me. And if we get… together, my dad… it might help his campaign. With donations and networking and stuff. That’s who Robbie was. Our parents wanted to set us up. Because his dad was an important potential donor. But when I… vandalized my dad’s car, they backed off and…” I can’t help but add, “You set me free from him too.”
He breathes through his nose when I finish.