For A Good Time, Call... Read Online Free PDF Page B

street, on Hunter's hands and shirt. Everywhere. It was
impossibly bright and dark at the same time, the rising sun making it
look almost cinematic.
    It
looked like he planned on bashing his face in until he killed him.
And judging from the murderous look on his face, I was sure he was
completely capable of doing just that. Then just as suddenly as it
started, it stopped. Hunter sat back on his heels, breathing hard as
he looked down at the guy for a long minute. Then he stood slowly,
reaching down and grabbing the guy, dragging him out of the road and
leaving him on the sidewalk.
    He
turned back to me, grabbing his cell phone out of his pocket and
holding it up. I had a second of confusion before a bright light
flashed and I realized he had taken a picture of me. Just in case, I
figured, some cops came looking.
    “Cover
up, Sixteen,” he said casually.
    I
wanted to. I really did. I glanced down to where the center of my
chest was exposed. If you looked closely enough, you could see the
very edges of the scars. I wanted to hide them, but my arms stayed
heavy at my sides. My eyes went to his, blank. I felt so weirdly
blank.
    He
exhaled a breath, moving a step closer and reaching for the two ends
of the fabric, quickly putting the zipper into place and pulling it
up. “Come on Fee,” he said, holding an arm out, gesturing
toward the door. “Fee,” he said, snapping a few times
loudly next to my ear. “Snap out of it. I need to get you
inside.”
    I
watched him like through a window. Like a television show. Like he
wasn't actually speaking to me, his words sounding far away and
fuzzy. He stooped down, grabbing my keys off the sidewalk and holding
them in his hand as he slowly started to reach out for me.
    The
fact that I didn't flinch away from him like he was made of fire was
a testament to how zoned out I was in that moment. Because one of his
arms was slipping under my knees and the other around my back,
picking me up off the ground and holding me against his chest. I felt
the jostling of my body as he went up the stairs, the dropping
sensation of the elevator as we got on the floor, then how he
struggled to hold me and figure out my complicated locks.
    He
carried me into my apartment, depositing me on the cold bathroom
floor and turning to wash the blood off his hands in the sink. I
watched as he scrubbed, looking down at his hands as he did so, his
face impassive.
    I
felt hot. That was the only thing that broke through my comfortable
little numbness. I was so unbearably hot. I lowered myself down on
the floor, turning onto my side away from him and curling slightly up
into the cool.
    The
water turned off and I heard him turn and move closer, getting down
on his knees behind me. I hadn't noticed my skirt had bunched up
until I felt his fingertips whisper across the still stinging cuts on
my thigh. “Oh, Fee,” he said, sounding unbearably sad for
someone so big and mean.
    I
closed my eyes against the knowledge that he was looking at my
self-inflicted scars and wounds. I couldn't process that right then.
I couldn't deal with that shame on top of everything else. I took a
few deep breaths, feeling the pulling sensation of sleep and
surrendering to it.

Seven

    I
woke up on the bathroom floor. Which wasn't completely unheard of,
though it had been a really long time since that happened. The weird
thing was the fuzziness. In my brain. Like I was hungover. I didn't
get hungover. You wouldn't be able to drink the way I drink if you
woke up with a blinding headache, feeling dried out every morning.
    I
pushed myself off the tile, sitting up and looking around with my
sleepy eyes. My throat hurt, a strange mix of pain and burning. I
brought my hand up, noticing the bruise around my wrist and feeling a
second of horror before the memory came back. Had I been so drunk
that I had passed out? And been... assaulted in some way? I glanced
down at my shirt and had the blindingly bright image of his hands
pulling the zipper