Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 140896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
If you weren’t coming, you could’ve sent a text. Your manners are 404 not found.
Then the next day.
Are you in the mood to witness blood spilling on your edgy boots? Because I don’t mind some petty knife crime with your Heathens.
Your ghosting efforts are proving to be both vexing and irritating. Believe me, you don’t want to push me. Come over tonight and I won’t hurt you.
Okay, I lied. I won’t hurt you much while I punish you for the insolence.
She didn’t show up. Not that night or the one after or the one after. My string of threatening texts went completely unanswered as if she couldn’t dignify me with a reply.
So I referred to my second preferred method of gathering information, also known in pop culture as stalking.
These days, she’s been posting pictures with her gang for the day. Today—as in, an hour ago—she posted a selfie, where Jeremy is in the background, leaning against a sofa and watching TV.
Mia is pouting at the camera, face leaning against her fist and her other hand pulling at a blue ribbon.
The caption is Bored.
My fingers tighten around my phone and I glare at Jeremy in the background. She’s been spending more time with him than necessary lately—the necessary amount is zero.
She’s vindictive, yes, but I’m not sure if she’s petty enough to try and provoke me with Jeremy’s constant presence around her.
Who am I kidding? Of course she is.
She possesses the hotheadedness of a bull on crack.
Seems I have to take matters into my own hands.
I send her a text she can’t ignore.
Landon: You didn’t only make the mistake of ignoring me, but you also went the very wrong way about it. Challenge accepted, little muse. If I have to effectively and personally wipe out your newest boy toy, that’s exactly what I’ll do.
Half an hour later, I physically check myself out of the party and drive to an unassuming place no one would think fits my plan.
In reality, everyone and everything does. Like a chess piece on my board.
Mia included.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
The only difference is that I’m alarmingly relying on her presence to create or, more accurately, finish the failures that didn’t make the cut. Before she came along, I used to shape this convincing façade that I was able to sculpt at will. Unquestionably, I made some stunning pieces of art, but I often found them underwhelming, like getting to a physical climax, but the mental side doesn’t live up to the intensity.
Ever since Mia’s ghosting, I’ve spent time in the studio staring at the miniatures I’ve made or the statues I’ve finished since she came along. I’ve created unquestionable masterpieces that I’m too possessive to show to the world. Not even Mum, who’s been my number one art guide and cheerleader wrapped in one.
The process is even weirder since I made those while she was slumbering, watering—and talking to—plants, or eating like a weirdly adorable food monster.
At this point, it’s veering dangerously close to an unhealthy addiction and I don’t allow those. Even smoking is an indulgence I can quit if I choose to. In fact, I’ve been cutting down on the cancer sticks lately.
Mia needs to be like cigarettes. Something I revel in but can discard when I’m bored. And I will be bored. It’s a fact, not a speculation.
After I park my McLaren in plain sight for anyone passing by to see, I stroll through the animal shelter’s door.
It’s late o’clock even for people who worship at animals’ feet, but that doesn’t seem to deter our resident Goody Two-shoes from coming here at this ungodly hour of the night. It smells rotten, just saying.
Some cats hiss at me as I pass by. Dogs growl, but I glare at them and they hide behind their tiny cages.
It’s no secret that Bran is the twin who’s a lover of all things animals and sunshine. I never cared for these creatures. Humans are enough of a headache as it is.
Besides, I can’t really use animals if they’re incapable of being manipulated, now, can I? Unlike popular psychological bollocks, however, I’ve also never considered hurting them like wannabe psychopaths.
Only mentally weak psychos with mummy issues hurt helpless beings, and I refuse to be lumped in the same category as the idiots.
I barge straight to the storage room, where Mother Teresa—sorry, I mean Cecily—is organizing pet food on the metallic shelves. Her silver hair is held in a messy chignon, making her look like a wise figure.
Leisurely, I remove my mask, casually hold it in my hand, and clear my throat.
Cecily glances in my direction with a slight jump, then pushes one sack of food in place. “What are you doing here?”
I stroll inside, taking my time and basking in the plain surroundings. “I’m wounded in my little heart. No hi, how are you?”