I’d whisper dirty promises along her neck as she gripped my hands. She always responded in the same way: Please.
Abigail looked up. “What?”
I cleared my throat. “You owe me.”
I walked into her room and threw myself on her bed. Her book went flying. Abigail bounced. She looked at her fallen book, then at me, as if deciding which problem to deal with first. She decided on me.
“Uh, get the fuck off.”
I threw my arms behind my head, situating myself against her quilted satin headboard.
She ground her jaw. “You could at least take your shoes off.”
I put one leg over the other, really rubbing my shoes into the comforter as I went. “As I was saying, you owe me. Truth or Promise?”
She scrunched her nose, and I could tell she wanted to fight it.
But she said, “Truth.”
“Why did you look so freaked out earlier today?”
Her eyes grew. “I…” She bent over the bed, busying herself with the fallen book. “I don’t think I looked freaked out.”
“Not what I asked.”
“Well, I don’t think I look freaked out so I obviously can’t answer that question.” She sat upright, placing the book in her lap, fixing the mask on her face.
I zeroed in on her nervous hands, the way she chewed her bottom lip and wouldn’t look me in the eyes.
“What book you reading?” I asked, deciding to push it off.
Abigail Crowne was stubborn and trying to force something out of her was generally fruitless.
“It’s a romance novel. You probably haven’t read it, because your brain is small, unlike mine.”
I bit back a smile. “Right, that’s it.” I shifted, throwing one of her ridiculously sized pillows off the bed. “What’s it about?”
There was so much tension in her eyes, a needling mistrust. She eyed me like I was a lion being nice to a mouse.
I was beginning to wonder myself why I wasn’t eating the mouse.
But that was a problem for another night.
“A guy,” she finally said.
I couldn’t halt my laugh. It came out of me, real and genuine. I was brought back to the old nights, when we would laugh until the black night faded into sun.
“No fucking shit, Abigail,” I said. “What’s the story about?”
Another one of her side-eyed uncertain glances, but she started telling me all about it. How she’d just started it yesterday but was almost finished. How the hero was so hot (her words) and the heroine kind of annoying, but the hero made up for it.
Romance isn’t my genre. When I read, I tend to gravitate toward nonfiction, horror, or classics. But Abigail Crowne was a romantic, and she got lost in her stories. As she told me the story, I got lost with her.
I used to read every story she loved, because I loved talking to Abigail, so it didn’t matter the subject. When we were teenagers, she got into Twilight, which meant I read four books about a sparkly vampire and had to deal with Abigail being Team Jacob.
Team fucking Jacob.
I eyed the forest green book in her hands.