Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
I cast tired eyes past my reflection and find her looking as outraged as I knew she would be. But there’s desire there, too. Her pert breasts are tipped with solid nipples and her angry eyes are still getting their fill of me. Turning my head to the side, I wait for her greedy gaze to fall to mine. Her lips part. My cock remains soft. Not even morning wood.
“Shut the door on your way out,” I say flatly, giving her nothing more than a straight face to accompany my blunt order. And then I see it. The intent.
“Here we go,” I muse to myself, pushing away from the sink and straightening, bracing myself.
She steams toward me, her hand locking and loading on her way. “You bastard!” She slaps me clean across my cheek. And I let her, gritting my teeth and waiting for the sting to fade before cricking my neck and opening my eyes. “The door’s that way,” I say, extending my arm past her.
We fall into a staring deadlock for a few moments—her stunned, probably reflecting back to the good fucking I gave her last night, and me impassive, wishing she’d hurry the hell up and get out so I can get on with my day.
“Thanks for the hospitality,” she snipes, finally pivoting on her bare feet and stomping away.
Moments later, the door slams, making the walls around me vibrate from the force, and I return to the mirror, grabbing my toothbrush. I clean my teeth, then pull on some shorts and running shoes and hit the streets.
* * *
The morning air feels good. I head to the parks, hearing the settling sounds of London by dawn, the sparse traffic, the birds, the sound of other running feet pounding the pavement. It all has the calming effect that I need to get my day off to a good start. The dew is still lingering on the grass, and a damp mist sticks to my naked torso as I sprint down the path. My legs are starting to go numb. It’s how I like it.
My focus remains forward, my direction automatic, like I’ve run the route a million times. I probably have. The same faces, mostly women’s, all smile hopefully when they see me pelting toward them, their backs straightening, their breathing suddenly forced into something close to consistent. Today might be the day I stop and say hi, or maybe even toss them a quick smile as I race past. Like I said, huge disappointment. They’re each just another face among a sea of meaningless faces, humans in my way. I round every one of them stealthily, my body working automatically to avoid any collisions.
Half an hour in, my mind’s starting to feel clearer, and the sweat is purging the alcohol from my system. All of it seeps from my body over the last mile stretch of my run until my lungs start burning with need.
Done.
I break down my pace and come to a slow stop outside Nero’s café, looking up to the sky. I nod to myself, satisfied. 7:20 on the dot. Pushing my way through the door, I grab a napkin and wipe my forehead as I stride toward the counter. I scoop up a bottle of water as I pass the fridge and crack it open, glugging down the whole thing before I make it to the server. She’s rung it through the till before I have a chance to reach into my pocket and retrieve a note.
“Your black coffee is on the way,” she says, having a quick check over her shoulder as she speaks.
“Thanks,” I mutter, tossing the empty water bottle across the café. It lands with accuracy in the bin. My black coffee is on the counter by the time I return my attention to the server.
Every day, the same. I scoop up my coffee and leave.
The traffic is building as I walk down Berkeley Street, collecting a newspaper from my usual vendor. He’s holding it out to me as I approach, his face smiley. “Early this morning, mister.”
I nod and take the paper, flipping him a quid before scanning the front page. The anger rises from my toes the second I catch a glimpse of the headline.
19 DEAD IN TURKEY AFTER HOLIDAY SHOOTING
“Bastards.” I swallow down the fury, as well as the helplessness, and read on. Evacuations being made, tourists warned not to travel there. Turkey has been added to the list of other red zones. The whole fucking world is a red zone these days. I fold the paper and toss it in the bin as I pass. I don’t know why I do it to myself. There’s nothing I can do to help. Not now. I’m not needed. Or wanted. My destructive rampage in Afghanistan took care of that. The faces of my comrades, my friends, start to break down the wall of defense in my mind. Happy faces. Dead faces. I blink back the flashback, forcing it away before it can take hold. I need another fucking ten-mile run.