Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 144433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
After that, I tell him to fuck off and retreat to my bedroom, the door shut. Zhur remains in the living room, and he combs himself for hours. I know he does, because I hear snarling and cursing and hisses of pain well into the afternoon and night.
I would feel sorry for him if he was a decent person, but since he's been a brat, I don't feel an ounce of pity. I change the sheets (because a certain someone had his naked balls on them) and lounge in bed, trying to entertain myself with Nancy Drew and her damned clock again.
I really need to pick up a hobby.
My hobby has always been people, though. I'm the one that is the last to leave the party, even if it means helping clean up. I'm the person that loves a roommate and wants nothing more than to hang out for happy hour after work. I love being around others. Love hearing their stories, their conversations. I'm no good on my own, and I'm definitely no good at crafting, or baking, or sewing, and I'm mediocre with my farming. I know a lot of the colonists here on the planet have picked up skills to enhance their lives (or pockets) but I'd rather just sit down and have you tell me about your day. If Risda had a door greeter job, I'd apply for that one instantly.
Instead, I'm trapped in my room reading an old book about a clock. Again.
The sun has gone down, and it's my least favorite time on the planet. The dead time, the do-nothing time, the time that everyone is at home. The time I can't turn my brain off. Maybe I can organize my kitchen or my foodstuffs. Re-fold the blankets. Make name plates for the cattle out of wood and paint. God, something.
Anything to stop me from being alone with my thoughts.
There's a knock at the door, and I'm so relieved that for a moment I'm almost glad it's that praxiian jerk. I fling myself off the bed and toss the book aside, bounding to my door. "What is it, my lord?" I say in my most saccharine (and mocking) voice.
He doesn't get the joke. In fact, he looks like he's in a rather foul mood. His mane sticks out in every direction, combed out but definitely not orderly. If anything, he looks like a Persian cat that had a run-in with a light socket, and I do my best not to laugh. He holds out his closed fist, indicating he wishes to give me something. Like a dummy, I put my hand out, palm up, and I'm rewarded with a huge wad of white shed fur.
Should have seen that one coming.
"That was a painful disaster," he says, practically seething. "It will not happen again. Tomorrow, when you go into town, you will demand praxiian fur products. I don't care what you tell them. Tell them you like it on your mane. Tell them your meat-stock have skin conditions and require additional oiling. I don't give a kef what lies you spin, just get me something so I don't have to pull my own fur out strand by strand."
Ouch. Again, should feel sorry for the guy. Still don't. "Is that before or after I'm bribing random men for their clothes so your balls aren't squeezed?"
"Either. Just get them all. Mane oil. Detangler. Clothing." He ticks them off on his claws and then pauses, eyeing said claws. "And a file of some kind for these overgrown monsters."
"Fine. Whatever." I remind myself that he's going to pay me. "When do you show me the carinoux pictures again? I want to see what I'm getting."
His nostrils flare and he looks distinctly rage-y. "In the morning."
"Before I go out," I state. "So I'm not wasting my time." I study him. "Is there a carinoux shopping place of some kind? Do you know what carinoux need? Do they eat meat? You said they're part lizard, right? What—"
He flicks a hand at the air. "Cease prattling at me. I am having a very bad day." His stomach growls and he looks as if he's going to lose his mind. "And I'm hungry. And I don't like being hungry. And I itch because my skin is dry and I don't like that either."
"You sound like a toddler having a tantrum."
He points a claw at my nose. "I don't like the lip on you either."
"You should fire me."
He growls, the sound fierce and unnerving, and yet somehow I'm not afraid. How can I be? He might be enormous and muscled but he's like an oversized prima-donna. He's all bluster and pissy demands and fluffy white fur.
He drives me crazy, but I have to admit...at least I'm not reading about Nancy Drew and her clock again.