Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I snap my eyes from an empty bottle of peroxide on the vanity sink to my canary-yellow hair and back numerous times before the truth slaps me hard across the face.
Angel’s shampoo is tainted with peroxide.
Does that mean what I think it does?
Does Angel know my arrival at her apartment was staged?
Peroxide in shampoo is a ruse Jimmy has used numerous times in the past six years, so she could know.
Desperate to find out, I march out of the bathroom. I only make it two steps out before my campaign is ended by tiny knives being stabbed into my feet.
Whoever thought star-shaped Christmas lights would look cute on a tree should be shot. Those fuckers are sharp, and when left on the ground, they have no issue dropping a six-foot-three man to his knees like an overloaded Santa sack.
“Oh my goodness,” says a cutesy, ear-piercing voice from above.
Angel races to me like the blood oozing from my feet doesn’t give her home some of the Christmas charm it is missing.
“With how stinky you were, I wasn’t expecting you to finish showering so soon, so I thought I’d use the hallway to lay out the lights to make sure they’re functioning. You’re not meant to step on them, silly.” She gasps when her eyes shoot up to my hair. “What happened to your hair?” As quickly as surprise leaps onto her face, it is replaced with fake remorse. “Oh no. I should have told you not to use my shampoo. The peroxide bottle cracked when I dropped it earlier, so I used an empty shampoo container to store it in.” She fans her hands across her hips as she twists to face the bathroom. “I could have sworn I left it under the sink. It was right next to the wax strips I haven’t got around to using yet.” Her eyes are back on me, full of humor. “A cool change arrived out of nowhere weeks ago, so I thought, what the hell, you’re meant to wear a winter coat when it’s cold.”
“Wear a winter coat.” I cough, certain I’m about to be asphyxiated by a rogue pubic hair. “You’re not meant to grow one.”
With a wave of her dainty hand, she pffts me. “Why wax a natural warmth that removes the chill anytime you get undressed?”
Before I can tell her personal hygiene isn’t optional, a doorbell buzzes.
Angel claps two times while bouncing from foot to foot.
She appears to be having the time of her life.
I don’t feel the same way.
“That’ll be dinner.” She darts down the hallway, dodging the landmines some fools call Christmas lights. “Be careful where you step. I don’t want you getting hurt so close to Christmas.” Her hair slaps her red cheek when she jackknifes back to face me. “How will you slide down the chimney feet first if they’re cut and bleeding?”
What the fuck is she talking about?
She can see I am confused, but she does nothing to ease it. With a smile as evil as it is beautiful, she exits the hallway with a spring in her step, leaving me to navigate World War III alone.
6
ANGEL
When I hear the hiss of a man with numerous cuts on his feet, I shove an empty peroxide bottle and the ugly Christmas sweater Mrs. Roach from apartment 18B knitted for me beneath the entryway table before snatching up the food Christian’s generosity purchased.
I don’t know the name of the wool that Mrs. Roach knitted into a Christmas sweater with a matching scarf, but its shedding resembles a Maremma Sheepdog with a severe skin condition. I lived off its spawns for days after she made me try it on in the foyer of our building last week, and they clung to every article of clothing within a two-mile radius.
One also lodged up my nose.
When it sent my hay fever into a frenzy, I stored it at the bottom of my laundry basket, hopeful one ungentle cycle would destroy it beyond repair.
Laundry day is tomorrow—thank god.
The reminder of my sweater’s existence conjured up the perfect this-is-why-I’m-single ruse.
With one tactic devised, a hundred more steamrolled into me. The next twenty-four hours will be the most fun I’ve had in the week leading to Christmas in years.
“Hey.” I make my voice extra cutesy, giving it that babyish edge most men hate when I spot Christian’s arrival in the corner of my eye. “Do you like Indian?” I jingle the takeout bag that cost him over two hundred dollars. “I ordered enough for an army. I hope you don’t mind. I’m famished.”
Christian takes in the many dishes I ordered, before smiling. I wish he wouldn’t. He’s dressed now, so his smile shouldn’t affect me how it did earlier, but I’d be a liar if I said my heart didn’t break into a trot at the first turn of his plump top lip.