Falling for Colton (Falling #5) by Jasinda Wilder Read Free Book Online

can’t figure out any of the words I’m seeing. The words are too damn small, and there’s too many of them. The letters distort and twist and then vanish. I turn the page and there’s a photo of a sexy blonde standing beside a sweet custom classic Charger. Man, I could do that. I could build that car. I could polish the body and paint it, I could fabricate brand new chrome bumpers and strip the engine and rebuild it, put in a killer six-speed manual and a custom exhaust, something growly and snarly that’d give that bitch some serious legs.  
    I daydream: my own shop. Racks and racks of tools, fucking towers of Craftsman toolboxes, a couple hydraulic lifts, some long benches and big-ass tables for laying an engine out in order…I could do it. If I had the money, I could do it.  
    Dad could’ve floated me the seed cash, and I could’ve done it. Started small, and then built it up myself and paid him back. But fucking no.  
    Go to college, Colton.  
    You’re stupid, Colton.  
    You’re an idiot, Colton .
    I must have dozed off, because the next thing I hear is the PA squawking. I make out the words “…New York….” and lurch to my feet, rubbing my eyes. I swing my bag over my shoulder and head for the bus.  
    It’s full. I’m lucky to be just barely making the last boarding call. There’s only one open seat, next to a nasty old toothless white guy who smells heavily of booze and cigarettes. I take the seat, settle my backpack on the floor between my legs, and within moments the bus is rumbling and moving. The overhead lights go out, and then the only light comes from the little reading lights dotting the interior. Most people are trying to sleep.
    It hits me about an hour later: Toledo is only an hour from Detroit, and Detroit is only an hour or so from home. It would have been so easy to make it back home without too much trouble. But I’m two hours from Detroit now, and when I get off this bus again, I’ll be in New York City. Turning around at that point won’t be so easy. This is fucking permanent, man. I’m by myself.  
    I’m alone.  
    I’m homeless.

Chapter 3: Winners and Losers

    It’s funny sometimes how subtle disaster can be.  
    The bus ride is easy. I sleep for most of it. I wake up at one point and drink a can of Coke, and eat another apple, and another granola bar. I’m almost out of food and I’ve been gone for less than twelve hours. I’m down to a package of crackers and one can of Coke.  
    The bag containing the rest of my money lies at the bottom of my backpack. I zip the backpack and stuff it between my legs. I keep it near me at all times, zipped up tight.  
    I drift back to sleep and wake up as the bus is squealing to a halt. I blink, rub my eyes and pull myself together. It’s late morning, and I’m in New York City. I stand up, grabbing my backpack, and then I notice that the zipper is open, just a little. Not a lot, but enough that I notice. This is weird, because I know I had closed it. And it’s the little things, right? Whenever I close my backpack, I always zip it all the way to one side or the other, because that way if things shift inside the zipper won’t accidentally rip open. I had that happen once in sophomore year. I had all my books with me because my locker was in the farthest upper ass-end of the school and I wasn’t about to schlep up there after every class. I’d gone to shoulder my bag and it had popped open and spilled everything everywhere. Embarrassing. So after that I always zip it closed to one side. Never at the top.  
    And now, the zippers on my backpack are up top, in the middle and open just a bit.  
    The dude pushes past me and hops off the bus real quick, disappearing into the crowd of the Port Authority bus station. The speed with which he flies past me and off the bus lights a little fire of suspicion. So I sit back down and open my bag.  
    I see crackers,  
    A can of Coca-Cola,
    Clothes,
    But no cash.
    FUCK.
    “FUCK!” I