Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 120722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 604(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 604(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
That’s not what I expected her to say.
“Because this is what people do? They meet, they talk, they get to know each other, they go grab a drink, because I haven’t forgotten that’s what Holly said you were doing tonight.”
Her eyes pin me in place as she lets the moment stretch dramatically. I don’t move a muscle, don’t blink, don’t even breathe, though that’s because of the smell of antiseptic and something I’m not going to label in my brain.
“He’s my brother, but I’m his guardian, so kinda my son too.” She says it like she’s expecting that to be a nuclear bomb that sends me running for the hills. But kids aren’t a deal breaker for me. I love kids and would love to have some of my own someday.
In the meantime, I get the biggest kick out of playing with Amy and Fernanda’s son, Miles, who’s five going on fifteen, with all the associated attitude.
“How old is he? My nephew is five, and like me, he loves making new friends. Maybe we can all play soccer some time? Or video games?” I can’t help the way my voice pitches like I’m talking to an actual kid.
Zoey seems taken aback by my response and dumbly says, “He’s eighteen.”
“Oh,” I say, somewhat disappointed on Miles’s behalf. “Well, soccer and video games are probably doable, but maybe not with Miles. Jacob probably isn’t into hanging out with little kids.”
There’s a question in the statement, begging her to correct me, but she looks at me like I grew another head out of my left shoulder.
“You’re . . .” I’m ready for her to tell me what I am, but the door opens and a gray-haired, uniformed guy peeks his head in.
“Hey, Zoey, you want anything for dinner?” He doesn’t react to the dead body or the random organs in bowls, but when he catches sight of me, I see nerves shoot through him.
Without waiting for Zoey’s answer to his first question, he asks another. “Should I be worried? He okay?”
It’s a kind question, or it should be. Like that the guard is checking that Zoey is okay with some random guy in her basement office. But there’s something about his tone that makes it seem like that’s not what he’s asking at all.
Zoey catches it too. “Yeah, Alver. He’s fine. The full moon isn’t until next week, so I’m not looking for sacrifices . . . yet,” she says darkly, one brow arching high and one dropping low.
Oh shit, she’s got a ‘The Rock’ look too, and it’s nearly as awesome as mine. I’d be imagining babies with wiggly brows if not for Alver’s reaction.
He pales, which is saying something considering his skin is a warm brown color, and he pulls at the collar of his shirt, though it’s already loose. He even reaches inside and touches the gold cross necklace around his neck.
It’s almost like he doesn’t get Zoey’s sense of humor at all, because that was obviously a joke.
A damn funny one.
I laugh, Zoey is fighting a smile, but Alver is looking more than a little concerned.
Zoey gives in, probably to reassure the guard’s nerves. “He’s fine, and I don’t need dinner tonight. I’m finishing up, and then Mr. Hale and I are grabbing a drink so I can do some paperwork for him.”
“Blake,” I correct again, determined to break down that wall she’s keeping between us.
Alver looks from Zoey to me, checking the vibe once more, and then shakes his head. “Your funeral, man.” He backs out of the room, not giving Zoey his back.
When the door closes, I whirl on Zoey. “What the fuck was that?”
Zoey’s eyes roll back in their sockets, and not in the good way. “You’re fine. I won’t really sacrifice you, full moon or not.”
She thinks I’m asking about her? I’m about two heartbeats from going out in the hallway and sacrificing that asshole for giving Zoey shit.
“Not you, Zo. Him. What’s his problem?” I clarify, pointing at the door, where I think Alver is still hanging around like a creeper.
That’ll just make it easier to kick his ass, though.
Hmm, I wonder if he’s got a Taser?
“Alver?” she says, her nose crinkled in a way that would be cute except I’m not sure why she’s confused. “He’s mostly nice.”
“And insinuates that you’re evil incarnate and going to sacrifice me to the full moon?” I accuse. “That doesn’t seem mostly nice to me.”
Her smile breaks through, large and mischievous now. “Technically, that was me.”
“Zoey,” I say in warning. I have no right to come to her defense this way. She’s obviously fine with the way her co-worker acted, but I can’t help but plan a little sacrifice of my own . . . of Alver. Full moon or not.
“Blake.” She mimics my tone with an extra dose of sarcasm. I don’t know how to answer that, both the tone and that she finally used my first name, but I’m probably gaping like a fish on the sandy beach that wishes someone would toss him back out to sea.