Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
I wouldn’t have bought a slice if I’d found it—I have better things to spend my money on than painful memories—but that doesn’t mean I don’t constantly scan high-end bakeries for it.
Nikita’s brows furrow. “I thought—”
“Who’s ready for dessert?” Gigi interrupts while balancing layers of honey-and-condensed-milk cake on her hands.
I shoot my hand in the air like a kindergarten student busting to use the bathroom.
Nikita’s response is the opposite of my eagerness. “I’m sorry. I have to go. I can’t be late. Dr. Abdulov—”
“It’s fine,” I assure her, aware I’ve already taken up a ton of time she doesn’t have.
We had a pamper day. It was free since we used supplies purchased before Nikita’s mom died. My skin has never felt so lush. It’s a pity I have nowhere to show it off.
Not that Nikita is aware of that.
“And you should probably get a wiggle on, too, Z. What time does the DJ gig start?”
I lie about a glamorous life so she won’t feel guilty about gifting me a thirty-minute shoulder massage in the dingy bathroom of her grandparents’ apartment for my birthday.
Furthermore, Nikita is studying to be a surgeon. Her hands are already miracle makers. The last thing she should feel is shame when offering up their services to a friend who still gives handmade birthday cards every year.
“I think it is around seven. It’s one of those secret gigs no one knows about, so the details are a little hush-hush.” I said I lie to protect her feelings. I never said I was good at it. “So I guess I should get a wiggle on.”
“What about your cake?” Gigi asks, desperate for more of the girl-on-girl time we’ve had in excess today.
I can’t remember the last time we’ve had Nikita alert and present for longer than two hours.
“It’s already curdled. I doubt a few more hours will hurt it.”
Gigi leans in to sniff the cake. When her nose crinkles, gratitude sparks through Nikita’s eyes. There’s nothing wrong with the cake, but by making out it tastes as ghastly as it looks, there will be plenty left for Nikita and me to share tomorrow. Gigi has a sweet tooth, but she’s fussy when it comes to the desserts she consumes.
“Thank you for today. I had so much fun.”
Gigi returns my hug before she whispers that only a sadist would enjoy a painful wax session. Then she shifts her focus to her blood.
“I’m so proud of you, darling.” Stupid wetness mists my eyes for the second time when she cups Nikita’s cheeks with her hands before she brushes their noses together.
Eskimo kisses were one of Nikita’s mother’s favorite ways to say goodbye.
I miss them as much as I do her, so I can only imagine the emotions Gigi’s farewell bombards Nikita with.
“You good?” I ask Nikita as we exit the basement apartment shoulder to shoulder.
“Yeah,” she whispers softly, her mind deep in thought. “Are you?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
She shoves open the door at the side of the main entrance before pulling up the collar of her winter coat to protect her glossy locks from the cool winds. “You waxed.”
“Yeah. And?” I smile when she gets annoyed at me for tossing back to her one of the many neuroses she hands me every day, before saying, “Hairy vaginas went out of fashion decades ago.”
“Yeah, but…”
I wave my hand through the air, encouraging her to continue.
She follows along nicely. “You’re going out tonight. You don’t usually wax when you are going out.” I realize my excentric personality is beginning to rub off on her when she says, “The only day you get a Brazilian is the day you don’t want sex. It’s your birthday. You have plans, and you look like that”—she drags her hand down my body—“so why today of all days did you wax?”
It takes me longer than I care to admit to come up with an excuse. “Everyone’s pain tolerance is different?” Since my reply is more a question than a confirmation, it sounds like one. “And by the time the concert is over, it’ll be close to twenty-four hours since you were up in my business.”
She scoffs before walking faster. “I was not up in your business.”
“You were so far up there I was beginning to wonder if you were giving me a pap smear.”
Nikita stops walking and turns to face me. “Talking about pap smears—”
“Nope.” I shake my head in disgust. “We’re not going there, and you’re not doing that. Ever.”
“I’m a trained professional.”
“I don’t care if you are the highest paid escort in the country, you’re not sticking anything inside me, let alone an ice-cold duck beak and a kitchen scraper. I don’t swing that way.”
Well, I didn’t.
Andrik said he’d kill any man who came between us.
He didn’t mention women.
It’s a pity I love dick more than a Celine Dion mega fan or I could have closed my eyes and pretended mouth stimulation alone would take care of an itch no amount of self-stimulation has scratched over the past five weeks.