Barely Professional – S Doyle (1)

Was this a trick question? “E.G. it’s late. I don’t want to play games.” He laughed at that. “Oh, Flowers, trust me. This is no game.” “I’m sorry for bothering you on a Saturday night,” I clarified. “I’m sorry I put you in a situation you didn’t want to be in.” He shook his head. “Nah, that’s not it. That’s not why I feel this way.” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him exactly how he felt, but that seemed a little too dangerous. My heart was thudding inside my chest, my skin felt tight.

I didn’t know how to break through this uncomfortableness. “I’m sorry for letting Claire drink too much,” I tried again, thinking he might simply want a more explicit accounting for what I’d done wrong. “Don’t be thick, Flowers. You know damn well you can’t take responsibility for other people’s actions. Only your own.” I huffed out a laugh. “Oh, yeah,” I said, now fully irritated. I stood up and walked over to where he was still spread out on my couch.

Driven by some crazy impulse, I took the drink out of his hand and took a large gulp. Suddenly my whole mouth was on fire. I swallowed and then breathed out what I was sure were flames. “There,” I said. “How about that action?” He stood then, too. Close to me, but I wasn’t backing down. That was the thing about E.G. You couldn’t show fear or weakness, otherwise he would roll right over you.

You had to stand your ground with him. Push back when he pushed you. He took the glass out of my hand and set it down on a table next to the couch. Then, carefully, he placed his hands around my upper arms. He didn’t squeeze so much as he let me know I couldn’t pull away even if I wanted to. I didn’t move. “You don’t get it, Anna,” he said, softly. So softly I had to move closer to him to hear.

“I’m not angry at you for any of those things. I’m angry at you for making me feel. Making me feel fear and worry.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. 1kitap1.com/en CONTENTS Prologue Chapter 1 Anna Chapter 2 Grant Chapter 3 Grant Chapter 4 Anna Chapter 5 Grant Chapter 6 Anna Chapter 7 Grant Chapter 8 Anna Chapter 9 Anna Chapter 10 Anna Chapter 11 Grant Chapter 12 Anna Chapter 13 Anna Chapter 14 Grant Chapter 15 Anna Chapter 16 Anna Chapter 17 Grant Chapter 18 Anna Chapter 19 Grant Chapter 20 Grant Chapter 21 Anna Chapter 22 Grant Chapter 23 Anna Chapter 24 Grant Chapter 25 Anna Chapter 26 Grant Chapter 27 Anna Chapter 28 Anna Chapter 29 Grant Chapter 30 Anna Chapter 31 Anna Chapter 32 Grant Chapter 33 Grant Chapter 34 Anna Chapter 35 Grant Chapter 36 Anna Chapter 37 Grant Chapter 38 Anna Chapter 39 Anna Chapter 40 Grant Chapter 41 Anna Chapter 42 Grant Chapter 43 Anna Chapter 44 Grant Chapter 45 Anna Chapter 46 Grant Epilogue Also by S.

Doyle 1kitap1.com/en PROLOGUE ANNA The first time they met. Downtown Houston September 28th The guy was drunk. Not loud or boisterous. Not completely incoherent, because he was still upright. But if I knew anything about being on the streets, it was when to spot a drunk. He walked the few steps out of the bar, stumbled, recovered. The light from the neon sign highlighted his hair pink and green. After a few more steps, he leaned against the brick siding to gather himself. Across from him in the alley, I glanced up and down the street and saw there was no traffic.

It was late at night and the bars in these areas usually serviced the casual diners and work happy hours. Not the hard-core drunks or the people my age who wanted to be out clubbing and hooking up until late into the morning. The place was open but was most likely closing. This guy was last call. I pulled my overcoat tighter around my body and considered what I was about to do.

The math was not on my side. Nearly twenty percent of all young adults who aged out of state foster programs found themselves incarcerated in the first year after aging out. I was actually one of the lucky ones. I’d managed to stay on in a work program until I was twenty-one, as opposed to being forced out of the state home at eighteen. Texas, they said, was the land of opportunity. Texas, they said, was where jobs and housing abounded.

Texas, they said. Maybe they didn’t mean Houston. I’d been here now for seven months and none of it was getting any easier. The diner didn’t come close to paying for an apartment, and Nico, the owner’s son, was starting to look at me funny. I wasn’t hot.

Not even close.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

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