Lost Boy Read Online Free PDF Page A

an act of violence, not okay with either of us, and seethe, “This isn’t going to get better until she is. It isn’t going to get easier. So if you need to walk, do it now. Otherwise, shut the hell up about it. I am not going to chill out, dude.”
    He chuckles but eyeballs my hands on him, “You can't even say dude normally.” He shoves me off and straightens his shirt, “I was just saying. That’s all.” I feel my lip curl up but he points at me, “There’s an underground fight ring in the city here, you need to go?”
    The idea of it perks up my spirits, but the thought of leaving her unobserved makes me sweaty in the palms. I shake my head, “No.”
    He nudges me, “What do you need me to do? This sitting in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere is gonna give me a stroke. My ADHD can’t handle shit like this. I need a job. You cool if I find something to do when you're on watch?”
    I restrain from choking him and slap his back, “Please, find something to do before I lose it. I don’t have anything, but I’m sure my father has something—or you know what, just go have fun. When are we ever going to be in New Mexico? Go see things and tourist about.”
    He grins and runs his hands through his short, dark hair, “Alright, I need to go run some fights. I’m gonna hustle some cash outta these bumpkins. We cool?”
    “Yes.”
    He pounds his hand into mine. I hate it. I hate urban things, lazy speech, text talk, and stupidity. Technology is making us less and less likely to survive as a species. We are so reliant on it. It bothers me to no end, that I need all of it to watch her constantly.
    He drops me off at the apartment. I have a fridge, microwave, and everything I need to watch her. I may die of scurvy, but I will be able to watch every second. I sit in front of the laptop as she leaves the class. I switch to the hall view, noticing the security guard nonchalantly walking behind her.
    She smiles and waves at a girl, the girl she’s always with when she’s free. The Michelle girl that Stuart calls a smokin’-ass hottie.
    My girl seems nervous; she holds things tight to her. I can see the panic on her face. She’s counting steps, that’s a bad sign. My heart starts to pick up in pace. I want to make her better, I owe her that. I wish I could be someone else. Someone new and fresh, who won't remind her of the bad things. I shudder when I think about it. I touch my phone in my pocket but I don’t dial. I can't call her. Jane—Doctor Bradley is no longer my doctor. I have to accept that. I have to move past it.
    I just hold the phone and fight the urges I get when things are out of control. My skin longs for things I can't have anymore. I have to be different now, for her.
    The marks on my back are gone, long gone, but the feel of the whip is there still. The feeling of deserving every mark, every lash, seems to remain even afterwards. I never seem to be free of the heavy guilt.
    I’m barely able to catch the glimpse of her getting on the bus, but I can tell she’s uncomfortable.
    She’s pushing herself.
    The eleven minutes it takes for the bus is long. It’s longer than most things I’ve lived through.
    My fingers tap, I pump out fifty pushups, I pace, I shoot the ball into the hoop Stuart demanded.
    I hear the bus and drop the ball, rushing to the window to see her blonde hair through the glass. She looks bad.
    I bite my lip, watching her window. I count the minutes it takes. That’s a bad sign.
    Finally, she flings open the door to her room, dumping sanitizer on her hands. She smells it and rubs it up her arms. She opens the window and sticks her face out. She is taking gulping breaths. My gut aches.
    I can see it.
    I see her struggle.
    It's my fault. I left her and she ended up here.
    Shame replaces the anxiety as it passes. She pulls her head in the window and puts on another dose of the sanitizer, looking down the whole time, like a second-class citizen. I want to hold her. It's the wrong kind