Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 106292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
I feel Zade’s stare like two lasers hitting the side of my face, and I make a point not to look his way, knowing he’ll be able to see right through me.
Sawyer shrugs before finally deciding to get himself a plate. “Nah, we’re just chilling,” he says, his way of grazing over the fact that they’ll be spending the day trying to scrounge up possible suspects of who could be behind the attacks on me.
Walking around the kitchen counter, I go to join Easton on the couch, dropping down beside him and crossing my legs as I sip my coffee. “Why?” comes Zade’s accusatory tone from the dining table, not one to trust that I could simply be asking an innocent question. He’d be right, though. I’m not.
“I, umm . . . I was wondering if it would be such a big deal to get my hair done today,” I say with a slight cringe.
Easton glances at me, his brows furrowed. “Don’t get me wrong here,” he starts, making my blood pulse just a little bit faster through my body. “But what’s the point?”
Glancing away, I let my gaze fall to my mug and let out a shaky breath, putting on the show of a lifetime. Hell, my eyes even well with tears, and when I blink, they fall down my cheeks for maximum effect. “Because it’s important to me,” I tell him in a small voice, letting him hear the vulnerability in my tone. “I don’t want to die not looking my best, you know what I mean? If I’m going out, then I want to go out looking fabulous, and maybe that’s incredibly vain of me and it’ll all be for nothing, but it means something to me.”
Zade scoffs from across the room, not buying my bullshit for even a second. “No, absolutely not,” he says. “You’ll be dead, Oakley. Your hair doesn’t matter.”
I purse my lips and meet his stare from across the room. “Do you believe in the afterlife?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Well, I do,” I lie, not really sure what I believe in when it comes to what happens to us after we die. I have to have hope that there’s something more out there—for my sanity’s sake. “It’s a firm belief of mine that we go into our afterlife the same way we died. You’re robbing me of my heart, Zade. And if I don’t get to take my heart into the afterlife, then the least I can do is make sure I look like a fucking queen.”
Zade gives me a blank stare. “You don’t really believe that shit, do you?”
“Do you have any kind of proof to suggest I’m wrong?” I throw back at him.
“No,” he says. “It just sounds ridiculous. Once we’re dead, we’re dead. It’s not like there’s some magic portal waiting to push us through the birth canal of a new life.”
I scoff and roll my eyes, sipping my coffee again. “I suppose it’s easy for someone like you to reject the idea when you don’t have a soul to protect.” Zade rolls his eyes, but I continue, feeling as though I’m barely scraping by on this one. “Okay, consider this,” I say. “I’ll be dead in twenty-four days, and I’m out here trying to live life to the fullest with what little time I have left. Getting my hair done is something I enjoy, so why the hell not? It’s not like I’m asking to go and sit in a salon for hours. We could get a mobile stylist to come here. I don’t even need to leave this little prison you’ve got here.”
“I don’t fucking like it,” Zade says.
“Yeah, no shit,” I scoff. “You’ve made that perfectly clear.”
“What’s the problem?” Sawyer says, taking his plate to the dining table and sitting down a few places away from Zade. “She just wants her hair done. It’s not a big deal, and it’s not like we’re going anywhere today. Call Benny, he’ll organize for someone to come up.”
Hope starts to blossom through my chest when Easton nods. “Yeah, sorry man. I’m with Sawyer on this one. It’s a little bit of bleach in her hair.”
Zade clenches his jaw, clearly not liking his friends not having his back on this one. But they’re right, it’s not a big deal. I mean, considering the bullshit excuses I gave him, it sounds innocent enough. Now if he knew I wanted this so I could go out on a date on Saturday night and look hot as hell, that’s a different story. “Fine,” he finally says. “But I don’t want some hairdresser up here for hours.”
“It’ll be quick,” I promise him. “I just need to touch up my roots, and maybe put a treatment through my hair. It’s looking a little dry.”