Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 32248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Stepping out of the legs, I walk over to my kitchen and start stripping off all my knives. I’d leave them on but I don’t want to risk them rusting in the water.
Once the knives are off, I grab the half empty bottle of whiskey I left on the counter and move into the bathroom.
Turning the shower on, I crank the temperature up until it’s hot enough to burn off a man’s balls.
Then I take deep swig from my bottle and step under the spray.
Knowing it’s going to be a long fucking night.
My cheek vibrates, rattling my teeth.
Ignoring it, I try to go back to sleep.
But it’s pointless.
A few seconds later the world vibrates again.
Demanding my attention.
My brain throbbing, I can feel the start of headache brewing.
I probably shouldn’t have drank as much as I did last night.
But it was the only way to make all the feelings stop.
Rolling away from my phone, I stretch my limbs out. Hoping whoever is bugging me decides to fuck off.
But the buzzing goes on and on, like an annoying fly that won’t go away.
My irritation growing by the second, I finally snap and grab my phone.
“What?!” I croak.
Peeling my eyes open to check the time, I’m immediately assaulted by bright sunlight.
Just as I squeeze my eyes shut against the harsh glare, a cold, emotionless voice comes over the line. “Miss Brower.”
“Yes?” I growl.
If it’s a telemarketer, I’m going to find where he lives and shove his phone up his ass.
The voice on the other end of the line becomes colder and sharper. “I’m calling to inform you that you’re scheduled for an interview today with Harper Enterprises.”
My blood instantly chills.
Harper Enterprises as in Matthew Harper?
The Matthew Harper?
Sitting up, I try to grab my sheet to cover myself but I must have kicked the damn thing off at some point. “I am?”
Ignoring my question, he states, “I’m sending you the information now.”
A text message from an unknown contact pops up on my screen with a time and address.
I glance at it and ask, “Who am I speaking with?”
Again, my question is ignored. “This will be a formal interview with Mr. Harper himself. I highly recommend you arrive appropriately attired.”
An interview with the Devil himself. Great.
“For what—”
Before I can even finish the line disconnects.
How fucking rude.
Perturbed, I stare angrily at my phone.
Then I decide to call back.
The line rings a couple of times before it’s answered by a chirpy woman. “Garden City Crisis Cleaning Specialists. We deal with the filth of the world so you don’t have to. How may I help you?”
What the fuck?
Disconnecting, I stare at the text message. It’s from the same number but more than likely spoofed.
Was that some kind of prank?
Or was it the call James was warning me about?
A little more information would be useful.
I’d like to know if I’m walking into some kind of fucking trap. Especially given my recent activities.
Speaking of which.
Grabbing my laptop before it falls off the bed, I double-check what I looked up last night.
Everything is still there, but when I tried to copy it over into my spreadsheet it became an unorganized mess.
My fingers itch to get to work on it. To get everything sorted out and cleaned up.
This project of mine has been my complete obsession for the past few months.
Leaving it as it is feels wrong as fuck.
But I know if I start working on it, I’ll fall down the rabbit hole and won’t pop up for hours.
Torn between the need to make more progress on my project and my ‘interview’ that’s been inconveniently scheduled for an hour from now, I stare at the names on the screen.
“I’ll be back for you later, fuckers,” I grumble and shut my laptop.
Sliding out of bed, I stumble into my bathroom and take care of my morning necessities.
Scrubbing the shit out of my teeth, I replay the phone call in my head.
I have a formal interview with Matthew Harper himself.
And I need to dress the part.
After spitting into the sink, I rinse my toothbrush off and straighten.
My eyes meet my mirror and I feel a little jolt of surprise.
Whenever I look into the mirror now it’s like a stranger is staring back at me.
I hardly recognize myself anymore.
Resisting the urge to punch the mirror, only because a set of bloody knuckles will probably look bad during my interview, I grab my makeup bag and get to work.
I can’t remember the last time I put on makeup in an attempt to impress someone.
It used to be I’d never be caught dead without any makeup on. I wouldn’t leave the house without a full face on.
Hell, if I spent the night with a guy I’d sleep in it.
Now most of my stuff is long expired and should probably be tossed out.
But it can’t be helped.
I figure I won’t come down with an infection if I sharpen the fuck out of my eyeliner and wash it all off as soon as the interview is done.