Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
“And there was nothing you had an issue with?”
I purse my lips, thinking. “He might be thinking about sex too much. If you do a search for the word cock, I’d bet it comes up more than five times.”
He leans forward, hitting a few keys on his laptop. “Four times,” he says, rather triumphantly.
“Okay, well, it detracts from the story. Just a bit.” I raise my finger as he opens his mouth to speak. “And no,” I add quickly, “I don’t have a problem with too much cock.”
“I’m getting predictable,” he laments with a smile.
Actually, your writing has proved otherwise, I think. But of course I don’t tell him that.
“I’m bone dry,” he says, waving the beer bottle at me before getting to his feet. “You sure you don’t want one?”
I’m prepared to say no again, to set an example, even though I’m parched and a beer is sounding really good but he goes on, “I’m just saying, you look like you could use one.”
My hackles raise. “What does that mean?”
“Have you forgotten about all that crap on your face?”
Shit, my makeup. Now that he mentions it, I can practically feel it seeping into my pores, trying to build a permanent bacterial colony.
“Can I use your washroom?” I ask him.
“Do you think I’m going to say no?”
“Just tell me where it is.”
He points down the hall. “Second door on your left.”
I’m surprised the apartment is big enough for a “second door on the left” and when I step into the hall, I’m even more surprised to see four doors.
I know bathrooms are perfect for snooping but I manage to control every curious fiber in my body and just stick to going pee. I’m pretty sure if I opened his medicine cabinet I’d only find condoms and maybe herpes medication anyway.
It’s when I’m washing my hands and contemplating putting his basil scented soap on my face, that I hear a loud thump from the other side of the wall, followed by a loud shriek.
I open the door and look over to the see the door next to me ajar and light spilling out into the hall. I peer my head around the corner. Blake is inside the room, standing beside a giant, and seemingly empty, aquarium.
“You okay?” I ask him, slowly coming inside.
Panic contorts his face as he quickly glances over at me. “Yes. Kind of. Fluffy just scared the ever loving shit out of me.”
I stop a few feet away and peer at the glass, now seeing a few rocks, small logs, sand and a tree stump, as well as a shallow dish of water inside. “Uh, Fluffy? Your cat?”
Please say it’s still a cat.
“If Fluffy was a cat, my life would be so much easier and I wouldn’t have to change my knickers every time I come in here.”
I keep walking over to him, slowly, though he raises his palm out to stop me. “You don’t have a deathly fear of spiders do you?” he asks.
“Spiders?!” I exclaim and then I’m looking at the glass again and now, now I can clearly see a furry brown tarantula bigger than my hand working its way across the sand. It’s like bear, if it had eight legs, a million eyes and could fly across the room at you.
“Oh hell no!” I yell and I’m spinning on a dime, running straight of the room, down the hall and to his fucking door, my back plastered against it, one hand on the knob. The apartment is so austere and bright, it’s hard to imagine I just saw that fucking thing in one of the rooms.
Moments later, as I’m catching my breath, Blake rounds the corner.
“So sorry,” he apologizes, looking as white as a sheet.
“What the fuck was that?” I practically gasp.
“That was Fluffy,” he says.
“He’s a fucking tarantula!”
“I’m very aware of that.”
“Why do you have a tarantula as a pet? Oh my god, what’s wrong with you?”
A shiver runs through him which he tries to shake out. “And oh my god,” I say, remembering his posture in the room, hearing that womanly shriek, “are you afraid of him?”
“It’s true that I am deathly afraid of spiders,” he says, heading right for the fridge and bringing out two beers. As he deftly pops the caps off both, he says, “But Fluffy is Kevin’s and I said I’d take care of him. Turns out it’s indefinite.”
He strides over to me and hands me a beer, his fingers brushing against mine as he does so. I’m so on edge that my skin feels electrified by his touch.
“I don’t get it,” I say, softly now because he’s nearly invading my personal space.
He runs his hand over the stubble on his strong jaw and nods, smiling to himself as he looks elsewhere. “I don’t get it either. I guess Fluffy was an escape artist and Angelica, that’s Kevin’s mom, said he couldn’t keep him anymore.”