Chapter 1, part-2

CONTINUE

Shaking away the memories, I rush over to a tall lamp by the

rocking chair and flick on the light. I release a sigh of relief when a

buttery soft glow emits from the bulb. A few days ago, I had called

to get the utilities turned on in my name, but you can never be too

sure when dealing with an old house.

Then I walk over to the thermostat, the number causing

another shiver to wrack my body.

Sixty-two goddamn degrees.

I

press my thumb into the up arrow and don’t stop until the

temperature is set to seventy-four. I don’t mind cooler

temperatures, but I’d prefer it if my nipples didn’t cut through all of

my clothing.

I turn back around and face a home that’s both old and new—a

home that’s housed my heart since I could remember, even if my

body left for a little while.

And then I smile, basking in the gothic glory of Parsons Manor.

It’s how my great-grandparents decorated the house, and the

taste has passed down through the generations. Nana used to

say that she liked it best when she was the brightest thing in the

room. Despite that, she still had old people’s taste.

I mean, really, why do those white throw pillows have a border

of lace around them and a weird, embroidered bouquet of flowers

in the middle? That’s not cute. That’s ugly.

I sigh.

“Well, Nana, I came back. Just like you wanted,” I whisper to

the dead air.

“Are you ready?” my personal assistant asks from beside me. I

glance over at Marietta, noting how she’s absently holding out the

mic to me, her attention ensnared on the people still filtering into

the small building. This local bookstore wasn’t built for a large

number of people, but somehow, they’re making it work anyway.

Hordes of people are piling into the cramped space, converging

in a uniform line, and waiting for the signing to start. My eyes rove

over the crowd, silently counting in my head. I lose count after

thirty.

“Yep,” I say. I grab the mic, and after catching everyone’s

attention, the murmurs fade to silence. Dozens of eyeballs bore

into me, creating a flush all the way to my cheeks. It makes my

skin crawl, but I love my readers, so I power through it.

“Before we start, I just wanted to take a quick second to thank

you all for coming. I appreciate each and every one of you, and

I’m incredibly excited to meet you all. Everyone ready?!” I ask,

forcing excitement into my tone.

It’s not that I’m not excited, I just tend to get incredibly awkward

during book signings. I’m not a natural when it comes to social

interactions. I’m the type to stare dead into your face with a frozen

smile after being asked a question while my brain processes the

fact that I didn’t even hear the question. It’s usually because my

heart is thumping too loud in my ears.

I settle down in my chair and ready my sharpie. Marietta runs

off to handle other matters, shooting me a quick good luck. She’s

witnessed my mishaps with readers and has the tendency to get

secondhand embarrassment with me. Guess it’s one of the

downfalls of representing a social pariah.

Come back, Marietta. It’s so much more fun when I’m not the

only one getting embarrassed.

The first reader approaches me, my book The Wanderer, in her

hands with a beaming smile on her freckled face.

“Oh my god, it’s so awesome to meet you!” she exclaims,

nearly shoving the book in my face. Totally a me move.

I smile wide and gently take the book.

“It’s awesome to meet you, too,” I return. “And hey, Team

Freckles,” I tack on, waving my forefinger between her face and

mine. She gives a bit of an awkward laugh, her fingers drifting

over her cheeks. “What’s your name?” I rush out, before we get

stuck on a weird conversation about skin conditions.

Geez, Addie, what if she hates her freckles? Dumbass.

“Megan,” she replies, and then spells the name out for me. My

hand trembles as I carefully write out her name and a quick

appreciation note. My signature is sloppy, but that pretty much

represents the entirety of my existence.

I hand the book back and thank her with a genuine smile.

As the next reader approaches, pressure settles on my face.

Someone is staring at me. But that’s a fucking stupid thought

because everyone is staring at me.

I try to ignore it, and give the next reader a big ass smile, but

the feeling only intensifies until it feels like bees are buzzing

beneath the surface of my skin while a torch is being held to my

flesh. It’s… it’s unlike anything I’ve felt before. The hairs on the

back of my neck rise, and I feel the apples of my cheeks heating

to a bright red.

Half of my attention is on the book I'm signing and the gushing

reader, while the other half is on the crowd. My eyes subtly sweep

the expanse of the bookstore, attempting to scope out the source

of my discomfort without making it obvious.

My gaze hooks on a lone person standing in the very back. A

man. The crowd shrouds the majority of his body, only bits of his

face peeking through the gaps between people’s heads. But what

I do see has my hand stilling, mid-write.

His eyes. One so dark and bottomless, it feels like staring into

a well. And the other, an ice blue so light, it’s nearly white,

reminding me of a husky’s eyes. A scar slashes straight down

through the discolored eye, as if it didn’t already demand

attention.

When a throat clears, I jump, snatching my eyes away and

looking back to the book. My sharpie has been resting in the same

spot, creating a big black ink dot.

“Sorry,” I mutter, finishing off my signature. I reach over and

snag a bookmark, sign that too, and tuck it in the book as an

apology.

The reader beams at me, mistake already forgotten, and

scurries off with her book. When I look back to find the man, he’s

gone.

“Addie, you need to get laid."

In response, I wrap my lips around my straw and slurp my

blueberry martini as deeply as my mouth will allow. Daya, my best

friend, eyes me, entirely unimpressed and impatient based on the

quirk of her brow.

I think I need a bigger mouth. More alcohol would fit in it.

I don’t say this out loud because I can bet my left ass cheek

that her follow-up response would be to use it for a bigger dick

instead.

When I continue sucking on the straw, she reaches over and

rips the plastic from my lips. I’ve reached the bottom of the glass a

solid fifteen seconds ago and have just been sucking air through

the straw. It’s the most action my mouth has gotten in a year now.

“Whoa, personal space,” I mumble, setting the glass down. I

avoid Daya’s eyes, searching the restaurant for the waitress so I

can order another martini. The faster I have the straw in my mouth

again, the sooner I can avoid this conversation some more.

“Don’t deflect, bitch. You suck at it.”

Our eyes meet, a beat passes, and we both burst into laughter.

“I suck at getting laid, too, apparently,” I say after our laughing

calms.

Daya gives me a droll look. “You've had plenty of opportunities.

You just don’t take them. You’re a hot twenty-six-year-old woman

with freckles, a great pair of tits, and an ass to die for. The men

are out here waiting.”

I

shrug, deflecting again. Daya isn't exactly wrong—at least

about having options. I’m just not interested in any of them. They

all bore me. All I get is what are you wearing and wanna come

over, winky face at one o’clock in the morning. I’m wearing the

same sweatpants I’ve been wearing the past week, there’s a

mysterious stain on my crotch, and no, I don’t want to fucking

come over.

She flips out an expectant hand. “Give me your phone.”

My eyes widen. “Fuck, no.”

“Adeline Reilly. Give me. Your. Fucking. Phone.”

“Or what?” I taunt.

“Or I will throw myself across the table, embarrass the absolute

shit out of you, and get my way anyways.”

My eyes finally catch on our waitress and I flag her down.

Desperately. She rushes over, probably thinking I found a hair in

my food, when really my best friend just has one up her ass right

now.

I procrastinate a little bit longer, asking the waitress what drink

she prefers. I’d look through the drink menu a second time if it

weren’t rude to keep her waiting when she has other tables. So

alas, I pick a strawberry martini in favor of the green apple, and

the waitress rushes off again.

Sigh.

I

hand the phone over, slapping it in Daya’s still outstretched

hand extra firm because I hate her. She smiles triumphantly and

starts typing away, the mischievous glimmer in her eye growing

brighter. Her thumbs go into turbo speed, causing the golden rings

wrapped around them to nearly blur.

Her sage green eyes are illuminated with a type of evilness you

would only find in Satan’s Bible. If I did a little digging, I’m sure I’d

find her picture somewhere in there, too. A bombshell with dark

brown skin, pin-straight black hair, and a gold hoop in her nose.

She’s probably an evil succubus or something.

“Who are you texting?” I groan, nearly stomping my feet like a

child. I refrain, but come close to allowing a little of my social

anxiety to air out and do something crazy like throwing a temper

tantrum in the middle of the restaurant. It probably doesn’t help

that I’m on my third martini and feeling a tad adventurous right

about now.

She glances up, locks my phone, and hands it back a few

seconds later. Immediately, I unlock it again and start searching

through my messages. I groan aloud once more when I see she

sexted Greyson. Not texted. Sexted.

“Come over tonight and lick my pussy. I’ve been craving your

huge cock,” I read aloud dryly. That’s not even all of it. The rest

TO BE CONTINUED

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***