Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Whatever’s leaving him, doesn’t matter to me.
What matters is that he manipulated me.
That she manipulated him.
That they selfishly worked together to manipulate me into ruining everything I love.
Huh.
Talk about a play I never saw coming.
Chapter 25
Arden
Probably almost cheated on, definitely publicly humiliated, and absolutely fired all in less than five minutes.
Feels like a chick version of the Howe hat trick.
I don’t like it.
In fact?
I think it sucks short, mangled, duck dick.
“It’s ridiculous, Sam,” Florence Ramirez states to her current co-anchor. “The Dragons are out of control again and the league needs to do something about it.”
“Why?” I bitterly hiss at the T.V. from where I’m sprawled out on my couch. “They don’t do anything about you.”
“Out of control feels like a bit of a stretch, Florence.”
“Thank you, Newbie!” soars free enthusiastically enough that Bear’s ears perk up.
“Does it?” She bitchily counters with a cocked head. “In the past two seasons, they’ve had very public incidents of drunk driving, substance abuse, gambling, and countless domestic disputes.”
Not fucking countless.
She just can’t count that high or her makeup melts from her brain overheating.
“Their continuously reckless behavior is an embarrassment to the league and contributing to our much bigger PR problem which isn’t what we need as an industry.” Her face snaps back to the camera as though looking directly at me. “I think the Dragons need to not only be fined but possibly relocated and sold.”
Growls simmer in my throat to the point Bear not only huffs for me to stop, he nudges at the remote for me to change the channel.
Probably a good call.
Nothing good ever comes from watching that Selena Nomez.
I flip to the main screen to choose my streaming choice yet am instantly saddened more by the recently finished stretch of films I see.
ForSakicsake…this is the problem with dating someone who has the exact same taste in entertainment as you.
You can’t just watch one of your favorites to take your mind off of them because chances are you’ve watched it together or banged during it, which is the last thing you want to be thinking about during a breakup.
Possible breakup?
A not not breakup?
Fuck. Me.
Whatever.
Scrolling past my typical choices and rewatches aimlessly continues until I finally reach a choice not tied to sports.
Or knights.
Or warriors.
Or anything that could possibly remind me of the pylon who looks like he can’t keep it in his pants.
The beginning of Romeo + Juliet begins and within the first four minutes, the man I know will never disappoint me, inches the remote across my sweatshirt covered chest to me once more.
“No,” I halfheartedly state to him, “I don’t need that.”
He pushes it a second time.
“Unlike the BS Florence was spewing I wanna hear this.”
His nose flicks the edge of it yet again causing it to flip over and hit me in the face. “Fuck!”
Rather than retort to my outburst, he simply adjusts his paws on my chest, relaxes his head between them and shuts his eyes, doing his best to drown out my movie pick.
Okay.
I lied.
Clearly my dog can and has been corrupted.
Luckily for me, the modern take on an annoying classic is done in a way that I can appreciate.
Guns for swords – although I prefer swords – is worthy of a stick tap much like the depiction of using gang violence to demonstrate what modern war between households could be.
And two lovers…from different worlds…not meant to be together but unable to resist the way the other makes them feel…hits me harder than expected.
And deeper.
It pulls tears up the back of my throat to linger on my eyelids, which is where they stay due to my refusal to let them off the bench.
Fuck that!
I shouldn’t be crying.
I have no reason to cry.
Star-crossed lovers apparently never get to be together.
Why would I expect to be an exception?
“Room on the couch for one more?” Dad cautiously inquires during his entrance that I missed but Bear didn’t given the way he’s in a guard stance beside the coffee table to better protect me. “I brought wings.”
A curious glance is thrown in his direction. “Kind?”
“Mango habanero.”
Sitting up is more of an automatic response than a thought through one.
I scoot over to give my dad the necessary room to set up shop and drape my “duck around and find out blanket” across my shoulders like an old lady shawl during high tea.
There’s an immediate glimpse at the action yet no comment.
Then again, what exactly is there to say about your depressed daughter sporting bedwear like an afternoon accessory.
Dad pops open the container, releasing the delicious fumes into the air, and I swiftly dive my hand inside to grab an overdue assist in sending the unshed tears to their dry stall.
My teeth have barely finished chomping down for a bite when he awkwardly begins, “So…uh…are we gonna talk about this?”
“What exactly? I ask between angry smacks. “Being fired from my dream job? Probably almost definitely being cheated on by my boyfriend – er ex-boyfriend – not not boyfriend? Having the whole thing filmed for literally thousands of people to witness thanks to my twat twin conspiring with my camera man co-worker who I punched in the gibs when he came clean about it in the parking lot?”