Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35660 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 178(@200wpm)___ 143(@250wpm)___ 119(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35660 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 178(@200wpm)___ 143(@250wpm)___ 119(@300wpm)
“What the fuck is so damn important that my phone keeps fucking ringing?” I grumble as I finish my task, then tuck my cock back into my slacks, slide up the zipper, and fish my phone out of my pocket, ignoring the call by hitting the end button, since it’s my mother. An instant mood killer. The lecture she’ll be giving me when I call her back will be more than worth it when I see a text from Fawn I missed.
Doe: Thank you for the ride home. I can walk to work tomorrow. There isn’t any rain in the forecast.
I smirk. She’s trying to get out of me picking her up tomorrow morning. That won’t be happening. Sure, her apartment is well within walking distance to Sterling & Associates, but there’s no reason for her to walk, take the train, or order a car when I’m driving by on my way to work.
Me: I’ll be at your place by eight o’clock.
The message is sent, delivered, and now read. I watch as the bubbles appear only to disappear. I exit the app and pocket my phone. I’ll call my mother back after I’ve taken a shower, grabbed some food, and made a stiff fucking drink.
FIVE
Fawn
I look a wreck, I feel a wreck, I am a wreck, sad but true. I texted Sly, attempting to tell him through messages that a ride wouldn’t be necessary, since when I told him face to face, he stated he’d be at my place first thing in the morning, then kissed my forehead. A total swoon-worthy move I was not at all prepared for. I’m fully capable of getting to and from work without a ride from the man who has played in every fantasy, no matter if I’m on or off the clock. That plan backfired. Instead of volleying back and forth, I decided to call it a night, putting my phone on the table by the front door and refusing to bring it with me in the bathroom. I know myself all too well. Bringing it with me would mean checking it non-stop, starting a message only to erase it. And then I’d eternalize every single word should he respond. The little sleep I did get would have been non-existent. Ignoring, blocking out, whatever you want to call it, I watched television, fixed up a salad with the leftover rotisserie chicken I bought the other day, doctoring it up with strawberries, feta cheese, red onions, glazed pecans, and dressing. It really helped. Until it was time to shower and head to bed, and I was back to warring with myself, going down the list of what I should and shouldn’t do. Annoyed with myself, I grabbed the phone off the table, set an alarm for thirty minutes earlier than my seven o’clock in the morning wake-up time only to hit the snooze button not once or twice but three stupid times. Needless to say, I woke up at my usual time, and I’ve been in a rush ever since. Add in the fact that my wrists still twinge when I move them a certain way, which made it even harder last night to shower without getting the bandages wet. I’m a novice in the getting hurt department. Saran Wrap would have helped, or even a plastic grocery bag taped around the gauze would have worked. I wasn’t thinking rationally, trapped in my own head, worrying about what that moment in the bathroom meant or how Sylvester Sterling couldn’t keep his eyes off me in his office, or his hand on my thigh as he drove me home, owning the road like he dominates the courtroom.
Now the clock in my room is glaring that I have ten minutes to rebandage myself, wash my face, brush my teeth, moisturize, apply a light dusting of blush, a swipe of mascara, and get dressed. The likeliness of that happening is little to none. I throw myself down on my bed, groaning in tiredness, a woe is me moment, if you will. I close my eyes, willing myself to get up and move my exhausted ass. The lull of my bed lures me back to a drowsy state when I hear the heavy pounding on my apartment door. I sit up and look at the clock, realizing that I’ve only been resting for a couple of minutes. Sylvester can’t be here already, can he?
“Just a minute,” I tell the person on the other side of my front door when I hear the loud heavy knock again, so hard there’s a vibration thrumming through my apartment, and if I don’t hurry, I’m going to piss off the few nice neighbors I have. Most of them are older and watch out for me, and vice versa, especially when they’re tablet or phone starts acting up. In return, they’ll take my packages and hold them until I get home, saving me from porch pirates.