Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Giving myself over to whatever awful scenario is coming next.
And it is awful.
The only real question is how awful.
I mean, what do they want from me?!
Money?
My car?
Sex?
Hot, musty filled air abruptly appears next to my ear delivering the answer, “Stop digging or else.”
The gray letters swiftly sweep across my bleary vision, wedging themselves between my eyes and glasses, spurring me to hysterically whip my head from side to side in hopes of avoiding being touched by them. This action of agitation unexpectedly results in me colliding with the attacker’s cheek encouraging my best friend’s command to come in a second time much louder.
Sharper.
SING!
Recalling the N being for nose, I propel my head backward, skull bashing into the other person’s causing a cracking sound to echo across the parking lot. Unlike my previous attempts, this one successfully frees me. Presents me with the opportunity to rip away the wire. Gasp for air. Kick my leg the same direction I sent my head in hopes of smashing into their crotch or thigh or shin, somewhere – fuck anywhere – that will keep them out of my space. Using my newfound freedom to my advantage, I hit the panic button on my keys, relief flooding my system the instant the shrill shrieks and flashing lights conquer the night air. However, before I have the chance to call out or run for actual help, the assaulter darts past me, roughly clipping my frame during their flee. I naturally stumble and trip over the edge of the nearby curb. Instantly, I stretch my arms out, praying they’ll cushion my fall, but my head still slams into the sidewalk, turning my currently dim, blurry world pitch black in a matter of mere seconds.
Chapter 4
Slater
Something’s wrong.
Something has to be wrong.
Why else wouldn’t she have texted me by now?
I guess she could be…just really caught up in whatever project she decided to stay late for…but even when that happens – and it has happened before – she still comes up for air.
She still sends me a cute one liner.
Or funny GIF.
Or a silly smiley face that lets me know she’s alive.
Thinking about me.
Lord knows I’m thinking about her.
Even when I’m sitting across from an irrefutably attractive woman that fits the distraction bill.
I anxiously tap my phone for the thirtieth time in forty-two minutes to check if I’ve somehow managed to miss a notification in the ninety seconds that have passed since I last looked.
“Waiting on an important call?” Lila Rossetti, Aviva’s college roommate, curiously inquires from the opposite side of the square table.
“Text.” Disappointed at the lack of change, I shift my stare up to the striking blue pair I’m sure most men fall to their knees over. “Sorry.” Reaching for my beer is attached to a sincere apology. “I’m not usually this rude.” A polite grin struggles to work its way onto my face. “I swear my ma and the military taught me better manners than this.”
She pulls her long, light brown hair to one side and lets her slender shoulders bounce. “Shit happens. I get it.”
It better not be happening.
And she better not have…decided to…go to…a bar or something with people from work where she met some random asshole who wants to get her naked.
I know it’s unlikely.
She rarely ever leaves her taste the rainbow decorated office.
Plus, people don’t exactly go out of their way to talk to her.
I love the woman.
I mean – I really fucking do – but she has resting panic eyes.
Some females have resting bitch face, some males have a resting fuck off expression, but Angel Cake? She has a “please don’t talk to me because I don’t know what to say back to you” stare.
So, that’s what most people do.
They don’t talk to her.
Their loss.
And currently, right now, mine.
“I swear I’m listenin’.” After giving my dark charcoal polo a minor adjustment, I prove it. “Runt’s is a great beer. Obviously.” My hand dangles the beverage before I sneak a sip. “It’s what I’m drinkin’ if they’ve got it.” Seeing her body relax in the seat once more pushes me to continue. “Which I’m highly impressed that this swanky steakhouse does.”
“My doing,” she sassily flicks her finger inward to where a normal guy would be trying not to drool over her rack that’s doing its best to spill out of her dress.
“How long have you been in sales?” I place the bottle back down near the untouched menu. “Or does what you do technically count as marketin’ since you travel city to city tryin’ to convince people to carry it?”
“You are listening,” Lila sweetly coos on an impressed smirk.
“What can I say? I’m a man of my word.”
The waitress comes by to top off our water glasses, and I use the opportunity to glance at my device again.
Still nothing.
Maybe I don’t have service?