The Monster (Boston Belles #3) - L.J. Shen Page 0,7
them and apparently had sex with half the football team then sucked off the other half.
He ignored my outstretched hand. I swallowed, withdrawing my hand and dumping it in my lap.
“Bad night?” His eyes lingered on my puffy eyes.
“The worst.” I didn’t even have the good manners to smile politely.
“I highly doubt that.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you anything my night is going worse than anyone else’s in this carnival.”
He offered me an arched eyebrow, showing me his handsomeness had a devilish quality to it, the kind I suspected very few women could resist.
“I wouldn’t bet with me.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“I always win.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” I murmured, starting to think he was a little too confident for my liking. “I bet you anything I’m having the worst night out of all the people in this carnival.”
“Is that right? Anything?”
“Within reason.” I straightened my back, remembering myself. She always told me to behave a certain way. If she was a ghost hovering above me right now, she would not appreciate my attire. The least I could do was not lose my virginity to this handsome stranger in a stupid bet.
“I’m guessing you’re the sensible one.” He twisted his lighter between his long fingers, back and forth, a movement I found oddly soothing.
“One, out of …?”
“Your siblings.”
“How do you know I have siblings at all?” I felt my eyebrows rise in surprise.
He stared at me boldly, his eyes saying things no stranger had any business telling me. It was like the world was his, and since I was a part of it, he could have me, too. Suddenly, I realized whatever was happening here was very odd and at least somewhat dangerous.
I wanted to strip for this man, and I’d never wanted to strip for any man, for any reason, especially not romantic reasons—and I didn’t mean just my clothes.
I wanted to make him explode like a piñata, clawing into his gut, unearthing every single quality, trait, and bad habit that he had. Who was he? What was his story? Why did he talk to me?
“You think you’re nothing special,” he said softly.
“Do people think they’re special?”
“Those who aren’t do.”
“I’m guessing you’re the troublemaker out of your siblings.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. He smirked, and I felt it in my bones. The way the air heated up just because he was content.
“Bingo.”
“You must’ve been a hellion growing up.” I cocked my head sideways, as if a different angle would show me a picture of him when he was nine or ten.
“I was such a troublemaker, my mother threw me out when I was nine.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I piped up.
“I’m not. I dodged a bullet.”
“And your dad?”
“He didn’t.” The man retrieved a cigarette pack he kept in his rolled-up shirtsleeve, a-la Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. He cupped his palm over his mouth and lit another cancer stick. I noticed Stoner Guy saw and didn’t say a word. “He was shot when I was a kid.”
“Deservingly?” I heard myself ask.
“Very much so.” Hot Stranger sucked on his cigarette, the orange ember flaring like that thing behind my ribcage. “How ’bout your folks?”
“Both alive.”
“But someone else isn’t. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be crying.” He exhaled a spiral of smoke skyward. We both watched as the gray mist above us evaporated.
“I lost someone tonight,” I admitted.
“Who?”
“No offense, but that’s none of your business.”
“None taken, but just for the record…” he tilted my chin up with the hand holding his cigarette “…everything in Suffolk County is my fucking business, sweetheart, and right now, you’re within county limits, so think again.”
An odd feeling washed over me. Fear, desire, and kinship battled inside me. He was direct and aggressive, a fighter. As unlikely as it sounded, I knew he and I were cracked in the same place, even though we’d both been broken in different ways.
Our cart began to move, slicing through a black vinyl curtain. A giant, plastic zombie leaned forward from a veil of green smoke, laughing lowly into my ear.
“The monster’s gonna get ya.”
There were beasts twirling, screaming zombies that spat water in our faces, and a family of corpses having dinner. A baby’s red eyes shot lasers at us.
The train of carts ascended to the top, slow and steady. People all around us squeaked in excitement.
“Do you ever feel lost?” I whispered.
The stranger laced his fingers with mine on the scratched plastic bench beneath us. His hand was warm, dry, and calloused. Mine was cold, soft, and sweaty.