Read Online Vanished: A Bad Boy Second Chance Romance by Autumn Avery - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Autumn Avery
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“Relax, Cass. I’m not here to case the joint.”
“Mia?” she says, getting between him and me.
“It’s okay,” I say, finally giving in. As much as I hate to admit it, I do want to talk to him. I do want answers. I need them. “He can come in.”
Her eyes flick back and forth from me to Joey and back again.
“You sure?”
I nod. “It’s okay. I’ll call you later.”
The sweetest concerned smile crosses her lips and she reaches in and hugs me. As she pulls away, she gives me one last confirming look. I nod again and she smiles and heads out the door, shutting it quietly behind her.
I turn to face him. My apartment suddenly doesn’t seem like my apartment with Joey standing in it. It’s like it’s his now, like he owns the place and I’m just a guest here. Without even trying, he’s somehow able to invade every aspect of my life just by existing. In school, all he had to do was stare at me from across the hall, and even for the last six years, while he’s been gone, he’s been stuck in my head like a splinter. And now, just standing in my apartment, he’s throwing my life into turmoil and he hasn’t even said anything yet.
“Six years,” I say sullenly, breaking the silence. “Six. Years, Joey.”
When I look up at him, I see the slightest bit of emotion register across his face: regret. But the hint of weakness only makes me angrier.
“Did you think I’d just be waiting for you all this time? I’ve moved on, Joey. I’ve forgotten about you.”
My words don’t even seem to register as he turns away from me and inspects the room, no respect for my privacy or my space. He unzips his sweatshirt and tosses it on the couch. His t-shirt is rough and worn on the back of his shoulders, revealing the tanned skin beneath. I hate myself as I feel the age old desires for him coming back. There’s no denying how ruggedly handsome he’s become.
He stops at the bookcase, and I almost panic. His eyes land on the Eiffel Tower statue he gave me, and my eyes instantly move to the floor. So embarrassing. Here I am denying feelings for him and the proof of my lie is right there. But he doesn’t pick it up or even acknowledge it. He just moves on and comes back to stand in front of me.
“Where are all your paintings?” he asks, like we were just having a simple conversation. I frown. What a ridiculous question to open with. After all this time, he’s going to ask me about my paintings. I roll my eyes so he can see it.
“At my mom’s house,” I say with a shrug. “All packed away.”
“You mean you gave it up?”
I don’t answer. It’s not something I like to admit, even to myself. The truth is, I haven’t made time for it anymore. Something always seems to get in the way, and the passion I used to have for it just seems to have faded into the background, drowned out by all the clutter of real life.
I envy people who have the time to pursue their interests. Painting supplies aren’t cheap either, and I’m not really in the position to go blowing money on what is essentially a hobby. Besides, the chances of actually making it in this world as an artist are slim to none. At least that’s what I tell myself.
“Ever make it to Paris?” he asks me. God, what is this? Doesn’t he know I don’t want to make small talk? Is he just nervous?
“What do you want, Joey?” I hear myself say, trying so hard to disconnect from this moment, to do anything to make it easier. He’s standing
“Mia?” she says, getting between him and me.
“It’s okay,” I say, finally giving in. As much as I hate to admit it, I do want to talk to him. I do want answers. I need them. “He can come in.”
Her eyes flick back and forth from me to Joey and back again.
“You sure?”
I nod. “It’s okay. I’ll call you later.”
The sweetest concerned smile crosses her lips and she reaches in and hugs me. As she pulls away, she gives me one last confirming look. I nod again and she smiles and heads out the door, shutting it quietly behind her.
I turn to face him. My apartment suddenly doesn’t seem like my apartment with Joey standing in it. It’s like it’s his now, like he owns the place and I’m just a guest here. Without even trying, he’s somehow able to invade every aspect of my life just by existing. In school, all he had to do was stare at me from across the hall, and even for the last six years, while he’s been gone, he’s been stuck in my head like a splinter. And now, just standing in my apartment, he’s throwing my life into turmoil and he hasn’t even said anything yet.
“Six years,” I say sullenly, breaking the silence. “Six. Years, Joey.”
When I look up at him, I see the slightest bit of emotion register across his face: regret. But the hint of weakness only makes me angrier.
“Did you think I’d just be waiting for you all this time? I’ve moved on, Joey. I’ve forgotten about you.”
My words don’t even seem to register as he turns away from me and inspects the room, no respect for my privacy or my space. He unzips his sweatshirt and tosses it on the couch. His t-shirt is rough and worn on the back of his shoulders, revealing the tanned skin beneath. I hate myself as I feel the age old desires for him coming back. There’s no denying how ruggedly handsome he’s become.
He stops at the bookcase, and I almost panic. His eyes land on the Eiffel Tower statue he gave me, and my eyes instantly move to the floor. So embarrassing. Here I am denying feelings for him and the proof of my lie is right there. But he doesn’t pick it up or even acknowledge it. He just moves on and comes back to stand in front of me.
“Where are all your paintings?” he asks, like we were just having a simple conversation. I frown. What a ridiculous question to open with. After all this time, he’s going to ask me about my paintings. I roll my eyes so he can see it.
“At my mom’s house,” I say with a shrug. “All packed away.”
“You mean you gave it up?”
I don’t answer. It’s not something I like to admit, even to myself. The truth is, I haven’t made time for it anymore. Something always seems to get in the way, and the passion I used to have for it just seems to have faded into the background, drowned out by all the clutter of real life.
I envy people who have the time to pursue their interests. Painting supplies aren’t cheap either, and I’m not really in the position to go blowing money on what is essentially a hobby. Besides, the chances of actually making it in this world as an artist are slim to none. At least that’s what I tell myself.
“Ever make it to Paris?” he asks me. God, what is this? Doesn’t he know I don’t want to make small talk? Is he just nervous?
“What do you want, Joey?” I hear myself say, trying so hard to disconnect from this moment, to do anything to make it easier. He’s standing
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