Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
My theory is proven accurate when Presley locks his eyes with mine and asks, “How much?”
“Um.” I need a moment to think. I snuck out to purchase batteries only an hour ago when my prehistoric battery-operated boyfriend couldn’t last one round of self-pleasing. I had planned to gift myself a rechargeable battery pack with the money my aunt Rebecca sent me for my birthday, but the closure of a sex store two towns over conjured a money-making scheme my broke ass couldn’t deny.
I got one hundred mixed sex toys for a hundred dollars.
That’s a bargain not even Saint Nick could ignore when seeking gifts for his older clientele.
I check that the coast is clear of the Wicked Witch of my building before giving Presley the figures he’s seeking. “Thirty for the clitoral stimulators. But if you want the Hulk, you’re looking around double that.”
“The Hulk?” Presley asks, his cheeks suddenly inflamed.
I take a second to admire a man who blushes before rummaging through my box. “Yeah. It’s the beast of dildos.” The heat on Presley’s cheeks jumps to mine when I pull out a realistic-looking ten-inch dildo. In its packet, it looks closer to fourteen inches. “I think it’s more a gimmick than useable.” I wave it around, confident it is double the length of any man I’ve ever been with, and don’t get me started on its girth. “I don’t see anyone eager to take on this beast.”
“You’d be surprised. Just expect a hundred comments about it coming out of her ears—” Presley’s sentence is cut short by Willow ribbing him.
As he breathes through a deflated lung, Willow moves closer to inspect the merchandise. She drinks in my box of goodies like her politeness has nothing to do with her fiancé knocking me over. I’m not surprised. They seem like genuinely nice people, even with us just meeting.
I feel like I missed the punch line when Willow murmurs a short time later, “Look, E. This Hulk has a warning label.” I realize the coloring of Presley’s cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment when he stands tall and proud, fanning imaginary peacock feathers. “Risk of asphyxiation.” She cranks her neck back to her fiancé. “I told you I wasn’t exaggerating.” She relishes his flaming face with me before she shifts her focus back to me. “Cash or check?”
I’m so stunned that I stumble like an idiot. “Um. Oh. Cash will be great. Thanks.”
I just sold a dildo to a celebrity. This will make marketing a dream. However, I should probably check if Willow is okay with my plan. The number of times Presley gets flashed when he runs onto the field would make the most confident girl’s shoulders wilt. She doesn’t need more knocks.
When Willow hands me a wad of cash, I stare at her, lost.
She answers my confusion after flashing me the cheekiest grin. “We need all the hulks. I’ve got enough to contend with, but it’ll be ten times worse if news that a replica of E’s dick is circulating the buy, swap, sell pages of his hometown makes it to print.”
A replica of his dick?
Shamefully, my eyes rocket to Presley’s face a mere second before they lower to his crotch.
I snap my eyes away, horrified, when Willow murmurs, “Evidence submitted. Case closed.”
“I’m so sorry,” I apologize, genuinely remorseful. “I thought they made dildos that size to embarrass brides at hen parties. I had no clue there are men with more than five inches.”
Her laugh rumbles down the side alley, alerting more than the security guard of my building that a celebrity has graced our shores for the umpteenth time this week.
Paparazzi flood the side alley quicker than I can snap my fingers, and they take a trillion pictures of Presley and Willow in under a nanosecond.
The lights are so blinding that before I can protect my eyes from permanent damage, Presley and Willow are hustled through the side entrance of my building by the building’s private security team.
“I’ll find a way to get these to you,” I shout, not wanting them to think I’ve duped them out of their hard-earned funds.
Willow’s Australian accent ensures I can’t mistake who replies. “You know where to find us.” She waves her hand around the inside of the elaborate building she is being forcefully walked into. “I’ll put your name on the approved list for our Christmas party later this week.”
“You’d have to know her name to put her on the list, Will.”
“Angel!” I shout in reply to Presley’s mumble. “My name is Angel.”
With rock stars, famous actors, New York Times best-selling authors, and mafia royalty forever visiting Ravenshoe during the festive season, my shouted greeting is gobbled up by the paparazzi who swarm my hometown throughout November and December.
They continue badgering the couple until they’re shoved into the elevator of my building and whisked away.