Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
In the middle of one of the hottest days of the year.
I dress in black because I have something to hide, and I didn’t bring any other colored clothing with me. What was her excuse?
CHAPTER 10
Lu-Anne
A few hours to think about my actions did not make me feel any better. It was pretty stupid to assume that just because I saw Mr. Mob drive away in his car, he wouldn’t actually be home. I’d watched him drive slowly down the block and immediately run to my closet. I threw on the first thing I could think of that was black, which was incredibly silly, given that it was broad daylight outside.
I was so convinced I needed to break into his house in order to find evidence to save other people’s lives that I didn’t even stop to really think about what would happen if I got caught or if Mr. Mob was somehow at home.
The only thing I can think of is that he drove his car somewhere and walked back while I was changing and didn’t see him. His front door was unlocked, which I found odd. I must have been in some kind of stupor, or maybe my heartbeat was so damn loud in my damn ears that I didn’t hear the shower running.
Mr. Mob scared the life out of me when he showed up out of nowhere like a freaking ghost—a really hot, insanely ripped, gorgeous, mouth-watering, delectable ghost.
Except he was real. All those muscles and bronzed skin and the dark hair that ran from his navel into the tiny little hand towel he had covering his—er—nether region was totally real. I don’t know if it was a regular-sized towel, and it just looked small on him or why the heck he couldn’t bother to cover himself up with something bigger. Oh, right. Probably because he panicked, thinking there was a crazed robber in his house.
Worse, I don’t know why part of me is still scared of him, and part of me is—well—not so scared. No, that part of me, a decidedly female part, is far from scared. Excited, maybe. A guy can’t look that good, be that nearly naked, and not be exciting. It’s basic anatomy at work. My body is betraying me while my brain is still on high alert.
The guy had tattoos. Not anywhere visible if he had clothing on, but he had tattoos on his chest and arm. And on his back. It’s just weird. And they were well done. I mean, it’s not like I stared or anything, but all that black ink especially on his chest just stood out. There was a tattoo along his ribs of some kind of angel with two red roses, and then on his back, I caught a glimpse of a full piece with a man who looked to be standing at a table with all sorts of tools. There was something written above it in big, black, block letters curling around his shoulders.
I didn’t get a good look at it, obviously, since I was fleeing the scene before the guy—who actually seemed amused by the whole thing—could change his mind about me. The tattoos on his back must be some kind of mafia thing, though. Probably the name of whatever organization he’s involved with.
It’s just further proof to me that the guy is sketchy.
Who the heck has those big design tattoos where no one else will ever see them, and who the hell seems so calm when they find someone invading their house? He didn’t seem ruffled at all. A little surprised maybe, but shockingly calm. He clearly didn’t want to get the police involved. Even standing there naked, he wasn’t threatened by me in the least. Then again, what could I, a small female, possibly do to him? Aside from whacking his balls with a damn spatula that I supposedly went over to borrow?
Yeah. I get why he was amused.
Maybe if I found some crazed-looking woman dressed in all black in my kitchen, digging around in my utensils and claiming to be looking for a spider-squashing tool, I’d be amused too.
Or maybe I’d think they had every right to be looking for a weapon because yeah, spiders are serious business and scary as hell. They are not to be messed with, and when they invade a person’s bed before attempting to murder them by jumping on their face and killing them with their hairy, gross, and frightening selves, they must die. That’s totally clear, right?
Anyway, no matter how many times I go over the incident, I still feel ashamed.
I’m in the middle of replaying the whole thing for the seven hundredth and eighty-ninth time—with the usual ripped muscles, smattering of dark hair, black ink, and tight pecks taking center stage—when there’s a sharp knock at the door. I let out a shriek and leap off the couch. Okay, so maybe my nerves are a little rattled. It takes me a few moments to realize I have a camera right there, and I run across the living room to the screen.