Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
The massacred notes of “Always Be My Baby” drifted down the stairwell when I stepped inside the building. My neighbor had replaced “baby” with “Jingles” (the name of one of her fifteen cats). And lucky me, thanks to the out-of-service sign hung on the elevator, I could enjoy it up all five flights of stairs.
She’d just hit an earsplitting C note when I closed my apartment door behind me.
I dropped my carry-on to the hardwood floor, and just before I went to collapse on the couch; I caught a whiff of something terrible. I stood by the door, sniffing the air. Then, over the muffled song coming through the apartment walls, I heard a drip.
I glanced at the kitchen. Water trickled from the huge stain decorating the bulging ceiling. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
I rushed to the cabinets, grabbing pots to catch the water. Then I opened the utility closet to retrieve the mop. Two swipes in, I gagged. “God, that smells rank.”
After I’d cleaned up what I could, I called maintenance and went to Margot’s. She opened the door wearing a mismatched, oversized sweatsuit. The pile of red hair on top of her head resembled a bird’s nest. She held up a bottle of red wine and a box of Sticky Creme Donuts. “Just got back from a necessities run.”
“You look like you just broke out of prison.”
She frowned on her way to the kitchen. “I missed you, too.” The box of donuts landed on the counter. Utensils rattled around when Margot yanked open a drawer. “The clothes aren’t mine. They’re Dean’s.”
Dean? I’d heard of Hunter, Max, Leo, Victor, and Sean. But not Dean. “Who the hell is he?”
She turned from the cabinets, wine key in hand and a smile on her face. “The CEO of Rent-a-Poo.”
I had a feeling Rent-a-Poo was a one-man show which took the whole CEO title from a guy in a suit driving a Lamborghini to a guy in shit-stained coveralls driving a pickup full of crap. “Tell me the reason you have his clothes on is because…” What logical reason would there have been for her to have on his clothes outside of her fucking him? “God, Margot.” I sank to her couch. “You banged the Rent-a-Poo guy?”
She held up a hand. “Guilty as charged.” And that was a million-dollar smile on her face.
“Margot!”
“What?” She peeled the foil from the wine bottle. “He’s nice. And hot.”
“And makes a living from spreading shit in people’s yards!”
She smiled. “Match made in heaven, right?” She pulled out the cork, then took two wine glasses from the cabinet and poured our drinks before coming back to the living room. “So, how was Europe, aside from it getting cut short and aside from you sitting on Vance’s dick?”
She plopped on the couch beside me and lifted a red brow. “Don’t tell me you made him do all the work, Blake? You at least got on top once?”
“No, I did not make him do all the work.”
“Atta girl.” She whacked me on the back, almost making me spill my wine.
I showed her pictures from Paris and the few I’d taken the one day we’d been able to go site-seeing in Rome before it flooded. When I came to the picture I’d snapped of Vance in a kilt outside the Vatican, she snatched my phone from me.
“Damn… I think I have a thing for kilts now.”
“Right?”
She passed the device back, and I swiped to the next photo. One of Revelation Jesus. I dropped my phone to my lap, then grabbed my glass of wine from the coffee table. “Charlie and the Chocolate Starfish.”
Margot frowned into her empty glass before reaching for the bottle. “Do I want to know why that picture made you mention that titillating film?”
“Don’t use nice words to try to make it any better, Margot. And I’ll tell you why that picture made me think of your porn. Because in an effort to help Vance get an erection to take a picture of his dick in the Sistine Chapel, I pulled up that movie, put an earbud into his ear, and pressed play.”
She slapped a hand over her mouth, probably to keep her from spitting out the mouthful of wine she’d gulped back. “You played ass porn in the Sistine Chapel?”
“Ass porn?”
“What the hell did you think the chocolate starfish was?”
It being anal made it seem so much worse. “Why are you watching ass porn?”
Tilting back her glass, she shrugged. “Because he’s hot…”
“The girl screams the Oompah Loompa song when she comes, Margot!”
“And she makes me believe it’s a natural thing. If that doesn’t deserve an award, I don’t know what does.”
I took one of her fur-covered throw pillows and whacked her with it. A text from Vance pinged on my phone.
Landed. Miss you already, babe.❤️
Margot peered over my shoulder as I typed out: Miss you, too.