Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 117408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
She was a great multitasker, I’d give her that.
“Forget it, Wendy.” I moved my hips so my dick fell free from her hand. “It’s not happening right now.”
She huffed some air and flopped onto bed, focusing fully on her phone.
It sucked. It really fucking sucked. I knew I was disappointing her, and I hated that shit. I hated not being able to perform, but it just wasn’t happening for some reason. This wasn’t every time we had sex, but it had been something that was happening more and more lately.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, as if copying Wendy was the only thing left to do. Might as well mindlessly scroll through the morning news for a few minutes before I got up to shower— ”Holy shit!”
“Huh? What?” Wendy was looking at me as if I’d just caught fire.
And it felt like I had. “My interview! It’s today. Fuck, I totally forgot. How the fuck could I forget?” I was an idiot. I felt like hitting the back of my head against our dark oak headboard until I gave myself a concussion. Maybe that would stop the worsening throb that was beginning to spread, made stronger by the nerves that were now rushing through me. My hands shook for a moment, my phone falling to the floor and bouncing across the room, sliding underneath the dresser.
“Shit.” I felt defeated, the morning starting off on every single wrong foot possible. But it was still early. My interview wasn’t until eight, although the detective agency was across the city, with traffic… “Fuck.”
I got up from the bed, went over to the nightstand. Wendy was typing away on her phone. I could hear the clicking sounds that came with every letter. I had silenced those sounds on my phone the second I got it, but she loved to hear that sound.
To me, the tapping currently sounded like a jackhammer. Every single letter drilled further into my brain. My girlfriend was lying down on the bed, not caring in the slightest about what was going on with me. Not even asking if I needed help getting my phone, which was just outside of my reach underneath the dresser. My shoulder hit against the wood frame of the dresser, shaking it and making the TV above me wobble precariously.
“Watch out.” Her tone was similar to a DMV worker calling out for the next in line.
With someone helping me out, maybe I wouldn’t have needed to watch out. I sighed and got back up, leaving my phone for now. I opened my drawer and grabbed a pair of briefs and some crisp black jeans. I tugged them on, glad that the attire for the interview was business casual and nothing more intense. The last thing I needed right now was to realize I didn’t have any clean formal clothes to wear.
In the bathroom, I locked the door and let the water run, finally finding some peace from the rising anxiety I was feeling outside. From the moment I had woken up, I felt nervous, which most likely compounded my boner performance issues. I realized now it was because of the job interview, although I had a feeling Wendy contributed to some of it.
I put my hands under the cold water, the temperature working to wake me up all the way. I cupped my hands, pooled some of the cool water, leaned down, and I splashed. The impact took my breath away in a good way. I did it again, and then one more time.
In the mirror, I watched as water dripped down my nose, over my lips, falling down off my chin and onto the white countertops stained with light blue toothpaste marks. Two icy blue eyes stared back at me. If I had seen them a few months ago, I would have felt like they belonged to a stranger, not that they were actually my own eyes.
Walking up to the doorstep of death and pulling back at the last minute usually did that to you.
The entire thing was so bizarre. It felt like nothing on this body was mine. I remember for the couple of weeks after I woke up from the coma, it all felt as though I were watching someone else go through painful physical therapy and bouts of invasive tests. It wasn’t me in the mirror, or the photos, or even in the memories.
Thankfully, the dissociation didn’t last. Although I couldn’t say that about some of the other complications that came with my injury.
I turned the water off and put a slightly shaking hand up to the back of my head. Right at the spot where the bullet had drilled in. I knew the spot like… well, like the back of my hand. It had become as much a part of me as the heart that pumped blood in my chest. There was a slight pain when I touched the spot, but nothing overwhelming.