If they were giving out trophies for the worst forty-eight hours, I'm positive I would win first place right about now.

Gripping the steering wheel, I mentally go down the checklist.

Caught my girlfriend cheating on me—check.

With. A. Chick—okay, maybe that one's not so bad. Hell, it's kind of hot.

Except for the fact that my cheating girlfriend is apparently engaged to said chick—check.

My cheating, lesbian girlfriend then decides to drop an atomic bomb and informs me she's pregnant—check.

My cheating, lesbian, pregnant girlfriend then tells me it's mine—check.

I quickly come to the horrific realization that my cheating, lesbian, pregnant girlfriend is right, because she's...wait for it...cheating on me with a chick. And last time I checked, chicks don't make sperm—fucking checkity, check, check.

And if all that shit isn't bad enough—there's also the fun fact that my older brother had to come to my rescue earlier today and drag me out of a casino—only for me to be right back at it again tonight.

That is until I was on a winning streak of epic proportions and the casino sent one of their goons over to investigate. And by investigate—I mean take me out back and go through my pockets to see if I was cheating.

In the end, the goon didn't find anything to incriminate me. He did, however, find my real I.D.

I was promptly kicked the fuck out without so much as a 'have a nice night' or my substantial winnings.

Blowing out a breath, I turn the radio down and look out the window.

Yup, I'm officially lost somewhere in West Bumblefuck. Awesome.

To add insult to all the injuries of the last two days, the casino I spent my night at was in an area I'm not even remotely familiar with, and thanks to all the hours spent gambling, my cell phone died.

It wouldn't have been a problem, but my cheating, lesbian, pregnant girlfriend borrowed my car charger last week and never fucking gave it back.

I remember the exact day, too...because it was the same day the GPS in my car broke.

Something I'm currently regretting not getting fixed because it's close to two a.m. and I have no idea where the hell I'm going in this godforsaken rundown town that seems to go on forever.

I'd hand in my man card and stop at a gas station to ask for directions at this point, but the only one I passed was about three miles back and it was closed. Other than that, I haven't seen any sign of civilization.

Not until I pull up to a bridge and honk my horn at the car blocking me from crossing.

Who the fuck parks their car in the middle of a single lane bridge? A BMW no less.

I honk my horn three more times, and when the car still doesn't move and I realize there's no one sitting in it, I throw open my door and get out.

With a frustrated sigh, I start walking and take a look around. It's dark out, but the full moon illuminates what looks like a large river below me. And aside from the sound of water rippling off the rocks, it's eerily quiet.

Intuition strikes me and the hairs on my neck prickle—maybe I've stumbled upon a dump spot for the mafia or some shit.

Crossing over to one side of the bridge, I rest my elbows on the poor excuse of a steel barrier and peer down. Yup, this place would be perfect for dumping bodies. It's so far off the beaten path no one would ever find the victim.

Deciding I want no part in being at the wrong place at the wrong time, because God knows I already have my hands full with my ties to the mob, I start walking back to my car. I mutter a curse when I press the wrong button on my key fob and my horn goes off.

“All right, you impatient jerk. I'm moving it,” a raspy female voice shouts.

Curiosity has me spinning around and I'm greeted by a petite and slender blonde. Or rather, partial blonde because the tips of her hair are a very noticeable bright pink. My eyes quickly scan over a few visible tattoos before they settle on the angry scowl plastered across her mascara-streaked face.

And that's when I realize who she is.

Makeup smeared eyes combined with pink hair is what I remember most about the chick I caught my girlfriend cheating on me with.

Okay, maybe not the only thing. The sight of her swapping spit with my girlfriend in the middle of a college cafeteria is firmly reserved in my brain's database.

Fuck, out of all the people in the world who could be standing on this bridge with me it has to be her.

The look she shoots me tells me she's thinking the same exact thing. “What the hell are you doing here?” Her hazel eyes turn hard. “Did Becca tell you about this place?”

I shake my head. “No.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “Then what the shit are you doing on my bridge, douchebag?”

“Christ, what is this, Three Billy Goats Gruff?”

She blinks. “What?”

“Three Billy Goats Gruff,” I repeat with more emphasis. “You know, the story about the troll on a bridge that won't let the goats pass.”

“Did you just call me a troll?”

More like inferred it.

It's on the tip of my tongue to comment on her pink hair, but I think better of it. My issues with her aside, she's the only one around who can give me directions out of here.

We stare at one another for a beat and her angry scowl deepens...and then her lower lip trembles.

I have no idea what to say to this girl, but it's clear she's extremely distraught. I'm about to tell her she's not a troll, but that's when it dawns on me.

She's alone. In the middle of the night. Standing on a bridge.

A mere two days after finding out the girl she thought was her fiancée...cheated on her.

Every cell in my body is telling me this situation isn't my problem and to get the hell out of here. I don't do well with emotional basket cases and I don't owe the girl standing in front of me crying a damn thing.

But the fact of the matter is...someone was hurt in this ordeal. And Lord knows it wasn't Becca and it sure as shit wasn't me.

It's the angry girl with the sad eyes glaring at me like she wants to toss me right off this bridge.

“I'll move my car,” she says sharply.

Before I can stop myself, I utter, “Look, I know I'm the last person in the world you want to—”

“Got that right.” The small hand holding her keys forms a fist. “I hate you.”

“You don't even know me,” I tell her. “Not that you wouldn't hate me if you did. I'm not exactly saint material.” I lean against the hood of my car. “For what it's worth, I had no idea she was with you. I know that won't change your perception of me, but you're obviously upset. Maybe talking to me for a little while will help.” I raise my hands. “Or make it worse. I make no guarantees, but it's worth a shot. After, we can go back to being mortal enemies and pretend tonight never happened.”

She worries her plump lower lip between her teeth, studying me.

I take the opportunity to do the same to her. I notice a small piercing in her nostril and another one on the right side of her upper lip.

My teeth clash as I continue my appraisal. I know I shouldn't make any judgments, but if this girl doesn't like dick, too—the male population took a serious hit.

Mascara streaks or not, she's gorgeous. A straight up twenty on a ten scale—and I'm not even into the whole tattooed and pierced look.

When I see nothing but that mixture of despair and rage still swirling in those hazel orbs as she finishes sizing me up and down, instead of a flicker of attraction or appreciation, I realize my earlier suspicion is right because she's clearly immune to my appearance.

Not that I'm expecting a heartbroken girl to fall at my feet, but as far as looks go—I'm on the extremely fortunate side.

Turns out Holden genes are good for something.

After what feels like hours, she finally speaks. “Is it true?”

When I give her a look she says, “The baby. Is she pregnant?”

Dread fills my stomach as three positive pregnancy tests flash before my eyes. “Looks that way. She has a doctor's appointment in a few days to confirm.”

She nods slowly as if taking in my sentence bit by bit because she can't bear the entire structure of it.

“Are you happy?” she asks, and I'd be lying if I said her question didn't throw me.

When I don't answer, she walks over to her car and sits down on the hood Indian style, awaiting my response.

The irony that our vehicles look like they're facing off isn't lost on me.

Figuring I don't have much to lose in this weird conversation, I hit her with the truth. “Not particularly. No.”

Then again, that's never what our relationship was about.

My mind flits back to a few months ago when I made a bet—actually a string of them—with the Dragonis—who happen to be Becca's family—and ended up losing a shit-ton of money.

My older brother Asher has no idea, and considering it's something I'll take to my grave; he'll never know. But I lost a major bet with the Dragonis on purpose.

Vincent Dragoni is the brother of Dominic Dragoni—who happens to be the head of the mob. But Vincent's also the assistant football coach at Woodside University and is a well-known underground bookie.

Confused yet? Well, hang on—things are going to get a lot more complicated.

My brother Asher—thanks to a nutcase, his bitch of a high school girlfriend Breslin, and her no-good father—was set up with a sex tape featuring another guy blowing him.

He was headed for the NFL, but after that tape went viral, he was promptly kicked out of Duke's Heart University for bullshit reasons and lost his scholarship. And my father being the asshole he is, one who's all about public image—disowned him and cut him off financially.

Asher's dreams were tarnished, all because some trailer park junkie and some mentally unhinged psycho teammate of his wanted to make a quick buck by setting him up.

Well that, and Duke, along with society; couldn't handle the thought of one of the greatest up-and-coming quarterbacks of all time being gay.

My brother might be out of the closet as bisexual now, but back when that video was taken, he was still dating his high school girlfriend Breslin and presumed to be straight as an arrow. But everything changed one night when his teammate turned stalker, Kyle Sinclair, blackmailed him with a video of a blowjob he gave him while he was sleeping.

In exchange for Kyle not releasing the video, Asher had to do all sorts of things for him, like securing Kyle a spot on Duke's football team. Although now we know that was all just a ruse to be closer to Asher because he was obsessed with him.

The last three years have been hell for my brother and he thinks it was all Kyle's doing. However, I found out a few months ago that Breslin and her dad were the co-conspirators behind the whole operation when I ran into her father at a bar and he spilled the beans about releasing the video; otherwise, I never would have believed it.

The one positive thing about the video getting out was that it provided Asher freedom from Kyle and freedom to be himself. Things are finally looking up for my brother again—thanks in part to me.

After I made an agreement with Vincent Dragoni that Asher would take the Wolverines to the championship—something the football team at Woodside hasn't seen since the seventies—in exchange for forgiving my massive gambling debt, Asher's playing football again.

It's just a matter of time before he wins the championship and the NFL realizes that into dudes or not, he's a damn good athlete and deserves to be out on that field.

People might not agree with what I did if they ever found out, but I have no regrets. I'm glad Asher now has the chance to prove he can make it on his own merits.

Annoyance crawls along my skin as my thoughts come back to my cheating girlfriend.

Bottom line, I started dating Becca Dragoni, who was sent to spy on me as a lackey for her family, because it was beneficial for me to do so. It was a benefit that became a convenience over the last few months though, because we were a good fit together.

She didn't bitch about my gambling because she grew up around it, and she never asked me where I went or why I came home late. Not to mention, she was nice to look at and the sex between us was decent.

As a thank you for her contributions to the relationship, I never strayed or treated her bad. And as long as I gave her some cash and took her out to a few fancy places...she was content.

In fact, things were going so well; I ended up renting an apartment for us.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not in love with her or anything, but who needs love when we have a mutual understanding?

At least we did...before she cheated on me and trapped me.

Christ, I'm only nineteen and in my sophomore year at Yale, I'm not ready for marriage and a baby. Truth be told, I don't think I'll ever be. Putting another person before myself has never been my strong suit.

The girl's features screw up, bringing me back to the present. I don't know if she looks more surprised or offended at my previous response to her question. “How long have you been...you know...with her?”

I look up at the night sky as I think. “Four months or so.” I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe more, maybe less. Never really kept track. You?”

“Since the last day of our junior year,” she answers with no hesitation. “May 25^th to be exact. Met her at an end of the year party some fraternity was throwing. The rest, as they say, is history. We've been together ever since.” She closes her eyes in pain. “Or rather, we were.”

“And Europe—” I start to say, recalling the summer vacation with friends Becca told me she was going on.

“Is where I proposed to her. Right in front of the fucking Eiffel Tower.” The tears start falling down her face again and she turns her head toward the water. “With my mom's engagement ring.”

“Well, at least you can give it back to her now.”

She flinches, and I realize I've somehow managed to offend her.

Usually, I'm on top of my game. Being a gambler, I analyze every detail and subtle expression on a person's face—all the things their body gives away without words—which in turn allows me to read them like a book. Thus, enabling me to see the proverbial cards they're holding.

But with this girl? I don't even need to decode anything; she's as candid as it gets. Her emotions are all laid out for the world to see and I can't decide if I find it refreshing or baneful.

“That would be kind of hard,” she whispers. “Not only because Becca probably pawned it by now, but both my mom and dad died in this river when I was eight.”

Talk about a punch to the gut. “Shit—”

“Spare me,” she says, but there's no bitterness in her tone. Only sorrow. “Your apology won't bring them back.”

“I wasn't going to apologize. Their death wasn't my fault.” I follow her gaze to the water. “I was going to say that it sucks.”

For the first time since we've been talking, she gives me a look I can't decipher. “Yeah, it does.”

Deciding to get more comfortable, I sit on the hood of my own car. “Mind if I ask how they died?”

“Something tells me that even if I said I did mind, you wouldn't give a shit and you'd ask anyway.”

I shrug. Her assessment isn't wrong.

Her eyes drift back to the water. “They were celebrating their ten-year wedding anniversary by going to the Caribbean. The weather was bad, but the new pilot they hired assured them there would only be a bit of turbulence and the rest of the flight would be smooth. A couple of minutes after takeoff, however, their plane crashed into this river.” Heartache floods her features. “My parents were killed, but the verdict's still out regarding the pilot.”

Now I do feel sorry; I'd have to be a complete sociopath not to. That said, something about her statement doesn't sit right with me. “Not to be morbid, but how is that possible? I thought you said the plane crashed into the river?”

She exhales a ragged breath. “It did, but he wasn't in the crash...not exactly. There's no one to verify it for sure given the only two passengers on the plane didn't make it out alive, but according to the investigators, the plane went idle shortly after takeoff. They also found a parachute along with a life preserver in the water, and when they found the plane at the bottom of the river, the door was open. Based on that, they thought there was a possibility he jumped out of the plane before it crashed.”

My chest tightens. “You mean to tell me—”

“That my parents' last moments on earth were spent watching the pilot they hired jump to safety while leaving them to crash to their deaths? Yeah, pretty much.”

My stomach sours. “Fuck, this is so wrong. It doesn't take a genius to figure out there's something ridiculously disturbing about what happened to them.”

Agony slashes across her face. “I know. But seeing as they never recovered the pilot's body, they had no choice but to assume he died too.” Her nostrils flare. “The investigation went on for years, but nothing ever came of it.”

“Do you think the pilot's still alive?”

Her face collapses. “I do. To be completely honest, nothing about my parents' death ever sat right with me.”

I can't blame her for feeling that way. “Not to go all conspiracy theorist on you, but were your parents' dangerous people? Spies? Mobsters? Inside traders? Did they have information about something they shouldn't? They obviously had money, given they were taking private planes to the Caribbean.” I pause when I realize I'm not only crossing boundaries with my questions, I'm leaping over them. “I'm just trying to figure out what happened is all.”

She visibly swallows. “Save yourself the trouble. I'm pretty sure I've already figured out the truth and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. No one believes me because I don't have a scrap of evidence to prove it. It's a dead end.”

“You can tell me the truth.”

She pins me with a cold stare. “Not only do I not even know you, but you're one of my least favorite people on the planet at the moment. Why should I trust you?”

“It's not about trusting me,” I tell her. “Earning your trust isn't something I care enough about to put effort into.” When her mouth falls open, I add, “I wasn't trying to insult you, I just don't waste my energy on people who serve no purpose for me. And you've already made it clear you hate my guts. This is nothing more than giving you an opportunity to speak the truth to someone who will believe you.”

She snorts. “And you'll believe me?”

“Of course, I have no reason not to.”

Because I know what it's like to think no one will.

I rest my elbows on my knees, focusing on her. “Besides, I've got a few more hours to kill. Mostly because I'm lost, but that's neither here nor there.”

She gives her head a slight shake. “You're the strangest person I've ever met.”

I wink. “I've been called worse. Now spill it, angry girl.”

She looks positively irritated. “Angry girl? Christ, did you really just give me a nickname?”

“If I say yes, will you start talking?”

“No.”

“Good, because I didn't.” I have to bite back a smile as her annoyance grows. “Although as far as nicknames go, that one suits you.”

“I can think of a few choice ones that would suit you,” she mutters under her breath.

I tap my watch. “I think we both know listing those will take you entirely too long. You'll save yourself both time and effort by telling me who you think is behind your parents' death instead.”

She draws her knees up to her chest. “Fine, but only because my night can't get any worse, not because we're friends or anything.”

“Duly noted.”

“Have you ever heard of Kit-Bit?”

“Yeah,” I say, recalling one of the world's largest personal-computer software companies out there. “I think everyone uses Kit-Bit.”

A ghost of a grin touches her lips. “My dad was the computer programmer.”

My mouth nearly hits the ground. “No shit.”

Her eyes gleam with pride. “Shit.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Go ahead...ask me what my name is.”

I eye her suspiciously. “What's your name?”

“Kit.” She folds her arms around her knees, locking them in place. “Most people think it's short for Katherine, but it's not. It's my actual name. Although my parents usually called me little-bit.”

There's so much anguish in her eyes I have to suck in a breath. “I take it you were close?”

She nods. “They were the best parents anyone could ever ask for. My dad worked a lot, but he always made time for his family. Neither he nor my mom treated hanging out with me like a chore or obligation. We would always have so much fun together.”

“Sounds like you had a nice life,” I say, tamping down my jealousy.

On the surface, my life was one that dreams were made of, but anyone living in the Holden household knew the reality was more like a nightmare.

“I did. Eight short years wasn't nearly enough.”

Our eyes connect. “No, I can't imagine it was.”

She clutches her knees so tight her knuckles turn white. “When my dad developed Kit-Bit, he became wealthy and successful really fast.”

“The American dream.”

“Basically,” she scoffs. “Anyway, shortly after Kit-Bit skyrocketed, my dad's brother, my uncle Garrison, tried to claim that he was the co-founder.” A crease forms between her brows. “Things got really ugly for a while. At one point, he even threatened to sue him.”

“Damn,” I say, and she nods.

“In the end, my dad settled out of court. Not because my uncle's claims were right, but because it was tearing my grandmother apart to see them fight.” She casts her eyes down. “The woman is evil, but she loved both her sons more than life itself.”

She hitches a shoulder up. “They didn't talk for a few years after that. Then one Christmas day when I was seven, he randomly showed up at our house hysterically crying.” Her jaw sets. “He said he was diagnosed with cancer and his doctors didn't give him long to live so he wanted to make amends. Of course, my dad accepted him back with open arms. He was family after all.”

A hunch burrows deep in my gut. “Let me guess, shortly after there was a delayed Christmas miracle and he was in remission.”

She grimaces. “Less than three weeks later. And mysteriously his doctor's office burned down, ruining any trace of his medical records...not that it mattered. My dad and uncle were then closer than ever.”

She folds her hands in her lap. “You see, my father was a computer genius and a great businessman...but he wore his heart on his sleeve, which led to people taking advantage of him. Cut-throat he was not.” She laughs. “My parents were kind of hippies in a way because they were all about peace, love, and happiness. They just loved to love and would help anyone in need.”

She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “Anyhow, a few months before my father's passing, my uncle invested in a brand new private airline for the rich and famous.”

I feel my heart drop a little with those words and I silently urge her to continue.

“I know it sounds crazy, but I think my uncle Garrison had something to do with my parents' murder. The pilot my dad hired privately also worked for the airline my uncle invested in, and I—” Her eyes pierce mine. “I feel it in my bones, you know? There's this overwhelming awareness that sits like a boulder in the center of my chest. But no one believes me.”

Her mouth flattens and that angry scowl returns. “Around six years ago, I reached out to the police about my suspicions. They listened but ultimately said there was nothing they could do. They had no proof to charge him and they told me that not only was my uncle very cooperative when they spoke to him, but him investing in the same airline that happened to hire a pilot who ended up crashing the plane that killed my parents was more of a bad coincidence than a motive. Then they told me if I wanted to talk to them again, I needed to come back with my guardian.”

She inhales a breath. “Later when I brought it up to my nanna, she became so livid she locked me in the basement until I apologized for even thinking such a thing.”

“What?” I growl, startling myself.

“Relax, I survived. I even learned to get used to it; given it was a common occurrence after that. Although for a different reason entirely.”

I massage the tension building like a skyscraper in my neck. This entire situation is awful. “It's none of my business, and you don't have to answer, but who did your father's money go to?”

“It's super complicated.” She chews on her bottom lip. “My mom was estranged from her family, so my parents appointed my Nanna Bishop, my dad's mom, as my guardian in the event of their deaths and created a trust. Right now, my nanna oversees it, since she's power of attorney, the beneficiary of their will, and my guardian, with the understanding that when I'm twenty-five whatever's left gets turned over to me.”

When I make a choked sound and shoot her a look of horror, she quickly says, “I know how it sounds, but I promise it's not as bad as you think. My father has written instructions pertaining to me that my Nanna has to abide by.” She starts ticking things off with her fingers. “Necessities like food, shelter, and clothing are paid for out of the trust, and my college education is covered. I also receive huge gifts for my birthdays and holidays.”

She motions to her BMW. “Like this sweet ride.” She leans against the windshield. “In addition to all those things, I also get an allowance every month. A nice one, given my parents were billionaires and all. Unfortunately, there are some issues with that thanks to my Nanna and her contingencies—” She pauses and shame shadows her face. “God, I shouldn't even be complaining. My parents made sure I didn't have to want for anything, and although I'd give it all up in a heartbeat to have one more day with them, I'm extremely fortunate for what they left me.”

“No judgments here,” I tell her, feeling relieved. At least she's being taken care of on some level. Not that I should give a rat's ass, but the business major in me is glad to hear it.

I watch as a star zooms across the night sky. “Just think, in another three years it will be all yours and you won't have to deal with your grandmother anymore.”

“Four years,” she corrects and I do the calculations again.

“Sorry, guess I assumed from what you said before that you started your senior year of college and would be turning twenty-two this year.”

She twists her hair on top of her head and pulls out some kind of clip, securing it in place. “Nope, I'm a December baby. My parents enrolled me in school early, so I was a year younger than all my classmates. I'll be twenty-one on December 13th.”

I inwardly wince. “Lucky number thirteen, huh? I'll be twenty in February.”

“February what?” she asks and I immediately regret saying anything.

I mumble my reply and her lips twitch. “You're a Valentine's day baby?”

I glare at her. “Do you have any idea how annoying that is to hear?”

“Oh, please,” she says. “I was born on Friday the thirteenth at exactly 1:13 a.m. weighing in at six pounds and thirteen ounces. Do you have any idea how annoying it is to hear from Triskaidekaphobic assholes that I'm some kind of bad luck charm?”

I try not to cringe, I really do, but she catches me anyway. “Seriously? You too?”

I study the paint on my car. “I like to gamble. It goes without saying that gamblers tend to avoid the number thirteen at all costs.” When she huffs out a breath, I say, “Don't worry, I'm not gonna run away screaming or anything.”

“Not even if I ask nicely?” she counters.

I grin. “Not even if you ask nicely.”

An uncomfortable feeling swoops in my stomach as I recall her words from earlier. “You said before that your grandmother locking you in the basement was a common occurrence growing up...why? Other than the fact that she's evil of course.”

She blanches. “You know, I've been telling you a lot of personal stuff and I hardly know anything about you.”

“That's not true,” I defend. “I just told you my birth date and that I like to gamble. That's more than most girls find out by the third date.”

Her eyes flicker with rage again and I remember we're supposed to be enemies.

For some reason I can't pinpoint, disappointment fills my chest.

Maybe it's because the whole Becca and baby situation doesn't feel so suffocating when I talk to her.

It's been kind of...nice.

I'm not ready to let go of that yet, so I clear my throat and say, “My name is Preston.”

She looks me up and down. “Yeah, I know. It makes sense. You have that whole snobby and entitled thing going for you.”

She ignores my dirty look and swings her legs over the hood. I try not to chuckle as I watch her short limbs dangle a few inches above the ground. “So, Preston. Why the fuck are you wearing a suit?”

At that, I do laugh. “I'm a business major at Yale.”

Her gaze is calculating. “I'm a business major myself, but that still doesn't explain anything. Not unless you were at an internship, and considering it's the weekend—”

“I went to a casino tonight. I like to wear suits when I gamble.”

She cocks her head to the side. “Awe, does it make you feel all grown up and important?”

I flash her some teeth and dimple. “Nah, baby. What's under the suit makes me feel grown up and important.”

Her expression twists in disgust. “Ugh, did you really just call me baby and refer to your” —she sweeps a hand up and down— “male anatomy in the same sentence?”

“Wasn't aware my male anatomy was so offensive. Never had any complaints before.”

I want to kick myself when pain flickers across her face again. I don't know why it bothers me to see her upset, just that it does. “I'm sorry.”

When she looks down at her shoes, I say, “My favorite color is green because it's the color of money. I have a five-inch scar on the back of my head that's covered by my hair. And I can add, multiply, and divide a set of numbers in my head quicker than it takes most people to process a solitary sentence.”

She freezes. “What's 5,528 times 6,623?”

I blink. “36,611,944.”

She pulls out her phone. “Divide that number by 26,500.”

“1,381.” I hold up a finger. “.58279245283.”

She looks down. “Holy shit, you're like Rain Man.”

I straighten my spine, feeling a weird combination of vulnerable and defensive. “Contrary to what some of my doctors first thought when my teachers insisted that my parents have me checked out, I'm not mentally challenged and I'm not on the Autism spectrum.”

I look away, hating how candid I'm being. This entire conversation is stupid and I detest that I can't seem to keep my mouth shut around her. “No one knows why I have Hypercalculia, just that I do.”

I keep the fact that one doctor suspected a brain injury from some kind of childhood trauma to myself. Besides, my father covered his ass when he said that I might have taken a few accidental hits to the head because I grew up playing football with him and my older brother. Hence the scar.

His declaration couldn't have been further from the truth though. I hate the sport and the only time I don't is when I'm making money off it.

Chalk it up to just one more reason I'm a disappointment to Mr. Spencer Holden, former NFL quarterback turned powerful investor and NFL football team owner.

Also known as the man who abused me for years.

My own personal monster under the bed.

“It's really not a big deal. Aside from it being useful in math class and when I play a game of blackjack, it serves no purpose.”

“I think it's kind of cool,” she interjects. “Heck, I'd be charging people to ask me math problems.”

“I'm not a freak show,” I bark, harsher than I intended.

Her eyes widen. “Whoa, I never said you were.” When I don't respond, she shifts uncomfortably. “Why do you have a scar?”

“Why did your grandmother lock you up in a basement?”

Her lips purse. “Maybe we should rock—paper—scissor it.”

“Not gonna lie,” I tell her. “I'm trying really hard not to make an inappropriate remark. It's almost painful.”

To my sheer surprise, she laughs. “Well, just so you know, I'm choosing scissors. Given I'm a lesbian and all.”

I rear back slightly, too enthralled to be crestfallen at her confession. “Tou-fucking-ché, angry girl. I was going to make some lame joke about being harder than a rock, but bravo.”

“Thank you,” she says, taking a mock bow. “Now in exchange for me one-upping your perverted ass, tell me something you've never told anyone else before.”

“My—” I stall, considering my next statement carefully. I had no intention of telling her, but now I find myself wanting to. And technically I've never told anyone about it, so I suppose it qualifies. “My father is the reason for my scar.”

She frowns. “What happened?”

“One day when my older brother Asher was nine and I was seven—” Her face scrunches at the mention of his name, but I continue. “Asher said he was too tired to go to football practice, and my dad went postal. He grabbed his head and kept ramming it into the coffee table. Asher's eye was inching closer to the corner of it with every hit and I knew I had to do something, so I moved it away. Unfortunately, I wasn't strong enough to move it entirely and it still ended up hurting him, but fortunately, it missed his eye.”

A lump fills my throat. “Later that night after Asher was all stitched up and everyone went to sleep...my father dragged me out of bed and did the same thing to me. Only he slammed the back of my head into the corner of the table repeatedly, even after I started bleeding all over the carpet. He told me he would stop if I apologized for getting involved, but I refused. He was hurting my brother and I wanted to protect him. To this day, I still remember the way the wood pounded my skull over and over while I cried. I'd never felt something so painful before.”

Except what came after.

Affliction crosses over her pretty face and she trembles. “Oh my God, Preston. That's horrible. No one ever suspected anything? Not that it's your fault, but you never told anyone? A teacher? School nurse?”

I shake my head. “I couldn't.”

“Why?”

I look at her and our gazes clash. “Probably for the same reasons you never told anyone about your grandmother locking you in a basement.”

There's a moment between us then, and even though no words are exchanged, I don't think I've ever seen someone as clearly as I see her.

“My father is an ex NFL quarterback turned sports team owner and investor. He has the money to get away with just about anything.”

She breaks eye contact. “There's nothing worse than when a person makes you feel powerless and you can't tell a soul about it.”

“No, there isn't.”

She brushes a strand of hair away from her face. “I—uh. I've fallen in love with approximately forty-nine people since I was fifteen.”

My brain rapidly concludes it's almost ten people a year, but I ignore that because I'm a little taken back by her confession. Or rather, why she's telling me this. “I don't—”

“All of them were women.” Her expression shuts down. “It's why she punished me...she hates that I'm gay.”

Those hazel eyes bore into me and I feel the impact right down to my marrow. “I'm gay, Preston,” she says, her voice cracking.

And just like that, I get the reason behind her confession now. I told her earlier that I didn't care enough to earn her trust, but she's given it anyway.

It doesn't matter that I already presumed she was a lesbian because of the Becca situation and the joke she made. She's still giving me her truth in the rawest sense of the word.

She's coming out to me...and silently asking for my acceptance.

She has it.

My brother Asher once told me there's a world of difference between people assuming or even knowing that he's bisexual...and actually confiding in someone that he is.

I don't think I ever really got that until now.

Tears are streaming down her cheeks and I have to restrain myself from walking over and wiping them away.

“I want so badly to be what she wants me to be, but I can't.” She wipes her tears with the back of her hand. “I keep thinking that maybe if I was, then I'd—”

She gives her head a slight shake as if dismissing the thought entirely, but I press on. “Then you'd what?”

She wraps her arms around herself. “Then I'd know what it feels like to be loved by someone again...because I'm starting to forget.”

The distance between us tightens and something deep inside my chest dislodges. I have every reason not to like her, and yet, seeing her so upset like this is the equivalent of someone turning down the sun. The world feels a little colder and a lot less bright when she cries.

“You don't want to be loved by someone like her.” I wait for her to look at me and then I continue. “You deserve more than a love based on contingencies. You, Kit Bishop, deserve the real fucking deal. The best kind of love. The constant, unwavering, selfless, for better or worse, never goes away and they'd do anything to see you smile kind of love. And one day, someone is going to come along and give it to you in spades. They're gonna crash right into you and never let go.”

She smiles through a new batch of tears. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Because there's someone on this earth who was born to love this girl like she deserves. And I hope like hell she finds them.

“That might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.”

“I have my moments.” I rub my palms on my knees. “So, when did you first realize you were gay? Did you always know, or was there some kind of experience that led to the discovery?”

She ponders the question for a moment before she says, “I'm pretty sure I always knew. But I think something started to click and I realized I was different from other girls when my mom walked in on me making my two dolls kiss while Ken was tossed across the room somewhere.”

I place my hand on my chest. “Ouch, poor Ken.”

She waves a hand. “Don't feel too bad. I gave him to a friend who had hundreds of dolls, so I'm pretty sure he made his rounds.”

“How did your mom react after she walked in?”

She inhales deeply. “She was amazing. I thought she would be upset or tell me I was doing something wrong because my girl dolls shouldn't kiss each other...but she didn't. She sat down next to me, wrapped me in her arms, and told me she loved me.”

She turns so she's facing the water. “Whenever I come out to someone...I usually hear the same stupid shit. If it's a guy, he'll make a joke about how I'm a wet dream come to life. Then when he realizes I'm serious and not interested, he'll tell me that I'm—” She holds up her fingers and makes air quotes. “Too pretty to be a lesbian and I just haven't found the right guy yet.”

She rubs her temples. “If it's another girl, they're usually supportive at first...but then it happens. They slowly distance themselves, making excuses not to hang out or be alone with me. Like they're afraid I'm going to be overcome with the uncontrollable urge to yank down their pants and shove my face between their legs.”

She shrugs a shoulder. “It's why I only have one best friend. She never treated me like I was a leper. When I came out to her, she said it was no big deal and ordered us a pizza. She never once distanced herself from me or treated me like I was different.”

“I get it.” When she gives me a look, I say, “My brother is gay. Bisexual, actually. When people found out, most weren't too accepting of it.”

She snorts. “That probably has more to do with the fact that he's an asshole.”

When I narrow my eyes she says, “Yeah, I know all about your brother Asher. And had he not cheated and lied to my best friend Breslin back in high school...he would have had at least one person in his corner.”

The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I ran into Breslin—literally ran into her—in the courtyard moments after I found Becca and Kit in the cafeteria. I had no idea that she attended Woodside before then though, or that she's Kit's best friend.

“You mean to tell me the friend you just described, the girl who never judged you for being gay is Breslin?” I stand up. “I hate to tell you this, but that girl is a two-faced bitch. She might not be judging you, but it's only so she can bide her time until she fucks you over.”

Kit lurches to her feet and the angry scowl is back with a vengeance. “Excuse me?” She balls her fists. “Don't you dare talk about—”

“Talk about who? The girl who bailed and skipped town after her boyfriend told her he was gay? The girl who slammed the door in his face and said she never wanted to see him again...leaving him there with tears in his goddamn eyes and his heart on the floor? Yeah, she's a fucking peach. Real supportive, that one. So supportive she—” I bite my tongue because if I share the information I have about Breslin...Kit will tell her.

And if Breslin finds out that I know all about her little set up before Asher does, she'll find a way to twist the truth and sink her hooks into him again.

I can see it now. The bitch will wait for the perfect opportunity...probably when he's a successful NFL player...and then she'll plunge that knife right through his heart all over again and take him to the cleaners.

Fuck that. I'm keeping this shit to myself. At least until Asher and his new boyfriend, Landon, are together long enough that he forgets all about her and can move on from both her and her betrayal.

Kit gets close to my face, or rather, my chest, given she's so tiny. “Don't call my best friend a bitch.”

“Don't call my brother an asshole,” I counter, and she shoves me.

When my 6'3” frame doesn't budge, she tries again.

“Get the hell off my bridge,” she screams.

“Believe me I would, but I don't know my way out of here,” I scream back. “Why the fuck do you think I've been sitting here talking to you for hours?”

She looks at me like I slapped her, and I immediately wish I could take the words back. “Dammit, Kit. I—”

“Shut up.” She digs around in her purse for a pen and paper and rapidly scribbles something on it before she slaps it on my chest. “Here. Now go.”

“I—”

She starts walking to her car. “Leave me alone, Preston.”

“Kit.”

She holds up a hand. “You said we could pretend tonight never happened and we could go back to being enemies, remember?”

I open my car door. “Yeah, I remember.”

Her eyes become tiny slits. “Have fun enjoying the life that I'm supposed to be living with her. Enjoy having everything I ever wanted.”

When she gives me her back, I slide into the driver's seat and turn the key.

The engine roars to life and the headlights illuminate her form as I shift my car into reverse and pull away. It's only then that I notice two large angel wing tattoos on opposite sides of her shoulder blades.

A moment later, her small body starts shaking with sobs.

 

Check.