Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Good luck with that, honey.
I hear her curse, feel her knees buckle under my weight. We fall down together. I think I laugh. Not sure. It’s all fading. Exactly what I want.
The world is a blur. Water blasts my face. Again. Mother fuck, that’s annoying.
Sputtering, I try to wipe my face, but my arms aren’t working right. Everything is rubbery and heavy.
“Stop flailing, you complete pain in my ass,” snarls a girl.
Elly May. I don’t care if her voice sounds like vanilla cream over ice, she’s the devil. A water devil. Maybe hell doesn’t burn. Maybe it’s perpetual drowning.
“You’re not going to drown,” she says, spraying me again.
I sputter, spit out a mouthful of water that tastes of vomit and whisky. I can’t see a goddamn thing past the deluge. “What is with you and water?” I manage before another round hits me.
“It has this magical ability to wash away filth,” she drawls as her hand rubs over my chest, not in a soothing way, but hard, as if she’s trying to remove my skin. Soap bubbles. It smells like grapefruit and vanilla. Girl soap.
“Yes, soap. Water and soap cleans,” she continues, as if I’m an infant. “I know. Crazy, right?”
Sarcasm. I’m an expert on it. When I’m not so drunk my eyes refuse to open, that is.
Hard hands move to along my scalp. Fingers snag in my hair.
“Jesus, when’s the last time you brushed this mop?”
“Birth. Now lay off. Let me up.”
“You have vomit in your hair. I’m getting it out.”
I let her wash me, her voice drifting in and out as she bitches. She’s never gentle. Doesn’t matter. I can’t handle gentle anyway.
I am dried off, tugged along. Everything still spins. Dip, sway, spin. No matter what I do to get away from it, I still hear the rhythm of life.
“I don’t hear anything but you babbling,” she says, her face a fuzzy halo above me.
Below me is soft. Cool sheets. Heavy blankets.
She rolls me on my side, shoves pillows behind my back. “You barf again, you’re on your own, buddy.”
Always am, honey.
Chapter Two
Killian
The pillow beneath my head is…fucking fantastic. I mean, it really is. Like a squishy cloud or something. Which is weird. Why am I getting a hard-on over a pillow?
This oddball thought wakes me up enough that I open my eyes. Sunlight burns, and I wince, squinting for a second. The room is white. Whitewashed wood-paneled walls, white sheets, white curtains drifting in a soft breeze coming through an open window.
I press my face against the cool pillow that feels like a cloud and take a breath. There’s an axe of pain splitting my skull. My mouth is burnt toast.
On the bedside table sits a tall glass of some red drink. It’s filled with fresh ice, the glass beaded with condensation as if someone just brought it in. Next to it are four clear, blue pills and a note:
For the criminally stupid.
Despite the fact that movement makes my stomach heave, I snort. Memories of my hostess’s sharp tongue and rough hands rush in. I ignore them—because I really don’t want to remember how drunk I was—and pick up the glass.
The drink smells vaguely like a Bloody Mary but also of something sharp and citrus. I don’t want to taste it, but that axe is driving deeper, and I’m thirsty as fuck.
It goes down hard, me gagging along the way, the pills I take with it almost getting stuck in my throat. The concoction is fizzy, which is a surprise. I’m guessing it’s Bloody Mary mixed with ginger soda and lemons—but hell, maybe there’s arsenic in it too. By the time I finish, I kind of enjoy the taste and feel like I just might live.
I lie on the white cloud bed, smell the touch of sea brine in the air, and listen to the wind chimes. Until the banging of pots and the slam of a cabinet door snag my attention.
Elly May.
If her name really is Elly May, I’m going to laugh my ass off. But Elly May sounds more like a sexy, hay-riding chick. The kind that will milk you dry then offer up her pie. My Elly May is far from that.
Yesterday was fuzzy, but I remember her all right: Frowning face. Foul mouth.
I hear it again in the form of a muffled “fuck” and another slam of a door.
Grunting, I sit up, taking a few breaths as the room spins. I’m buck-ass naked and have to smile at that. Most interesting shower I’ve had in a while, and I didn’t even get off.
It takes an eternity to stand and even longer to reach my clothes. I find them neatly folded on a chair and smelling of Tide. My grandma used Tide. I shove my clothes on and head for the door.
I’ve been sleeping in the back room of an old farmhouse, apparently. I don’t remember what the outside even looks like, but inside is kind of spare country with plank floors and faded furniture.