Eighteen year-old Zach Curtis has lost everything: his girlfriend, his job and his scholarship. Nothing in the world matters anymore, until he receives a rude awakening from a stranger.
Petite and awkward, Terra Quinn is living the life with her bes...
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– Zach –
We arrive at Cody's thirty minutes later than the intended time. I wouldn't admit it, but I was secretly hoping for Terra to give up looking so we can have an excuse to go home. Upon seeing all the smiley faces, I am beginning to feel exhausted, and the night hasn't started.
We are ushered to the living room, spacious and bright, and we take a seat on the couch next to where everyone else is. Penelope is nervously fidgeting as she screens through the piece of paper in her hands. That's probably her script.
Okay, now what?
I glance at Terra, who seems to be semi-excited by just being in the presence of others. Looking at her only causes the nagging voices in my head to resurface again. I have questions to ask, but there's no easy way to phrase it.
Was she with James last night?
Annoyed at myself, I look away and suppress a sigh. I don't know why I care. To begin with, Terra isn't obliged to tell me anything, and I wouldn't even pry since I normally wouldn't even be curious enough. She can hang out with James, it is entirely her choice, even if he is forcing her to go places she would refuse to go such as that shady nightclub.
But that's what I can't ignore. What other reasons could there be for a man to force a girl into a nightclub at an hour past midnight?
He had slick black hair, he was tall and well-built. She had loose wavy brown curls, dressed in an oversized sweater. An oversized sweater, like the one Terra is wearing now.
Do I still turn a blind eye?
"How is your hand?" Terra beams at me, throwing me off guard. I had completely forgotten about it.
"It's healing." I reply, and I watch her eyes trace the bumps on my knuckles.
I didn't think she would ask me about it the first time, and I was hoping that she wouldn't notice, but she doesn't seem like the kind that would be oblivious especially to the people around her. I was relieved when she didn't persist to ask me how it happened, unlike ninety-five percent of the people I meet. How do you explain to someone about punching the wall at five in the morning out of pure frustration? There is no way I can mention that without brewing even more questions.
"Good." She says, and I'm not sure what's good about it. It isn't her hands that are bruised, it is mine. "You know, I was beginning to worry that you were involved in some kind of mafia operation." She laughs, then stops when she realizes her own words. "You're not, are you?"
"No." I answer.
"I-I mean, I won't judge." She shrugs gawkily.
"No."
"Okay." She sighs in relief. "Because if you are, I wouldn't know what to do, actually."
"Just stop hanging out with me." I say like it is obvious, but she looks at me like I've said something crazy.
