Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Dani has gotten herself into a world of shit, and just like old times, she’s managed to drag me right back into the middle of it. As I close my eyes and rest my head against the wall, I try to think of things that make putting up with the drama worth it.
I come up empty.
Chapter 11
Deacon
An hour of reprieve, that’s all I got when Anna disappeared into the bedroom. Just enough time to finish eating and settle on the couch. I barely closed my exhausted eyes before she came into the room sighing like I’m the reason her world is crumbling down around her.
“What now?” I snap, finally over it when she sighs for what seems like the millionth time.
She shrugs, never pulling her eyes from the baseball game playing on the muted television. She’s not paying any damn attention to the game. I’m pretty damn certain her only goal in life right now is to irritate the hell out of me.
I’d leave, but there are a couple of reasons I’m still sitting here. One, she was terrified last night, and she seems calmer when I’m around. God only knows why. Two, I’m fucking beat, and even the twenty-minute drive back to my apartment above BBS headquarters seems like an impossible task right now.
I should’ve left when she first sat down before my muscles relaxed and I let the past couple of days sink into my bones. Now I know I’m planted here for the rest of the day and possibly all night unless Wren calls with some form of usable information.
She doesn’t answer my question, but I cut my eyes in her direction when she sighs once again.
“Do that one more time and I’m going to hogtie and gag you,” I threaten.
Without pulling her eyes from the commercial break on the television she pops an eyebrow up. Is that interest? I can’t imagine a woman like Anna even considering the idea of being bound, but that doesn’t explain the way her face lit up when I said it.
“Just go to bed.” I nudge her legs splayed out on the table with the tip of my booted foot.
“It’s too early,” she grumbles.
“You didn’t sleep well last night.”
“How would you know?”
Because I watched you toss and turn, and I didn’t bother to comfort you because the more you wiggled, the more the sheet drifted away from your body revealing so much tanned skin, I had to bite my knuckle to keep from groaning and waking you.
And it’s official. I’m the biggest creep on the planet. I didn’t feel so bad watching it last night, but replaying it in my head makes me feel like I should be on some predator list splashed on the front page of the local paper.
“You look tired,” I say instead.
She snaps her head in my direction, narrowing her eyes but not saying anything.
I know what I just said, and I’ve been married, so I know what it sounds like to a woman. You look tired, to them, translates into you look like shit. Somehow, females, with a very clear understanding of the English language translate those few words differently than any other words a man could use.
She doesn’t take it as concern from me but as an insult.
“Tired, huh?”
“Just a little,” I placate because Lord knows I don’t have the energy for another verbal sparring session with her.
“Okay.” She pops up from the couch and walks away.
“Crap,” I mutter, turning my head just in time to see the bedroom door snap shut.
After twenty minutes of not hearing anything from her, I finally settle back into my sloth position on the couch. The game is over by now, but I just can’t muster the energy to reach for the remote and change the channel or turn it off completely so I can sleep.
My lead-heavy eyes flutter when the bedroom door opens, only Anna isn’t popping out for a bottle of water or something to eat. She’s dressed to the nines in a sleek blue dress that moves like waves of the ocean when she walks.
“What the fuck?” I hiss, sitting up fully on the sofa and glaring at her. “Playing dress up or something?”
I default to agitation because that emotion is ten times better than wondering which set of sexy lingerie she’s wearing under that amazing dress. I had to hightail it out of the living room earlier this afternoon at the sight of it in order to prevent her from getting an eyeful of what seeing it did to me.
“I’m going down to the bar for a drink.”
“Like hell you are.” I almost add not dressed like that, but that would only encourage her to ask more questions. I still haven’t gotten the sound of her saying wouldn’t you like to know what this filthy mouth can do out of my head. On the surface my answer is never in a million years, but truthfully, I wanted to unzip right there and—