Read Online Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) by Kristen Kehoe - Free Book Online Page A

parking lot outside of Jordan and Nala’s dorm, still sweaty and dirty from the work I was doing with Hunter before I made the useless trip to my mother’s house. There is drywall under my fingernails and in my hair. My whole body feels like it’s covered in dust.
    A part of me almost sent a text to cancel, knowing the mood I’m in. But I stopped myself, because more than I want to go and punch something, maybe take a run on the beach and sweat this anger out, I want to work again. Right now, working means Jordan.
    Pulling up to the curb, I put the truck in park and take my phone out of the cup holder, ready to dial Jordan and let her know I’m here when I see her sitting on a bench near the building, watching the people passing by.
    I kill the engine and pocket my keys, stepping out of the truck and heading toward her. It’s almost five o’clock, and there are people walking in every direction, bags and phones and conversations whirling. I ignore them all, soaking in the seconds I get to watch Jordan while she watches them.
    She looks tidy, her denim button-down tucked into a warm yellow skirt that skims her thighs, ending a couple inches above her knee. Her legs are crossed, her purse on her lap. Her face—I could look at it all day and never see the same thing. Right now, it’s aware while she takes in the people walking around her, but there’s a longing just beneath the surface. I can see her brain cataloguing, identifying, storing information away. My fingers itch to bring her to life.
    I want to know—I need to know everything she’s thinking.
    I get close enough she must see me in her peripheral. She turns, standing when we make eye contact. She’s wearing some dainty shoe, a ballet slipper look-alike, wrapped around her ankle with one thin band. They’re flat, so when I step closer, I look down while she looks up.
    “I didn’t know if you were going to make it.”
    “Got caught up.” I don’t apologize for not texting or calling, and her raised brow tells me she notices. “You comfortable to walk in those?” I point to her feet.
    She answers without looking down. “Yes.” I wait for a second, content to look at her. Her mind is churning, I can see it. Outside, she’s calm—her eyes though, they give her away. “Where are we going?”
    “To eat. I’m hungry.”
    I take her hand, turning to walk toward my truck. She hesitates, I keep going, forcing her to keep up. It’s rude, but I can sense her starting to backtrack, to regret agreeing to see me, and I don’t want that.
    “This is me,” I say, pointing to the truck at the curb. It’s relatively new, but I use it to haul equipment and materials for Hunter, so it’s got some wear on it, along with a noticeable amount of dust and dirt on the outside.
    “I have a car.”
    “I know. It’s a nice one.”
    Huffing out an irritated breath, she stops abruptly, forcing me to stop with her or drag her some more. “Problem?”
    “I thought I would drive. Follow you.”
    “No.” I turn back and start toward the truck.
    “Excuse me?”
    “I like the way you say that, Red. Real proper and polite.” I open the passenger door and turn to her. I still have her hand, and though she’s attempting to look annoyed, there’s a little bit of uncertainty lurking beneath the surface.
    “I don’t know you. You don’t live here. It’s not only safer, but more practical for me to drive myself, so you don’t have to come out of the way to drop me off later.”
    “Are you always practical?” I ask. The slight tightening of her fingers on mine tells me I’ve hit a nerve.
    “There’s a study that shows the first time girls relinquish control is when they become susceptible to assault. It usually begins as a no , and their attacker turns their rejection into a yes .”
    “Jesus, let’s hope you don’t think that’s what I’m doing.” I’m not opposed to making waves when it gets me what I want, but now is not the time for that. I want her