Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
“Time for you to die,” I mutter with as much sadistic glee as I can muster. I raise the ax above my head, channel my inner pissed-off lumberjack, and bring it down. Hard. The ax is sharp since it’s brand new. And heavy. The table shudders under the first blow but doesn’t give, so I swing again, narrowly missing the light fixtures in my haste. This time, the bastard crumples with a satisfying crunch. I step back, panting, and lower the ax down to my side.
Well then. I guess that was slightly anti-climactic, but there isn’t anything I can do about it now. The table was no match for the ax, and it’s not like it needs any more blows.
I set the ax aside, pick up two of the legs and a section of the top, and carry it outside. Then, I storm straight over the deck and paving stones to the fire pit at the far side of the yard. I do the same with the other section, heaping it on top of the small circle. I also have Byron the bastard’s clothes and shit inside that he didn’t take. It’s all junk, or I’d donate them. Really. Even if they had bad karma attached to them. But it’s not even worth it. Basically, it’s all just fit for a trash pile.
I heap all the crap on the broken table and go back for the jerrycan. I do keep it controlled since I don’t want the fire department showing up, so I don’t go wild with pyro glee and gas the whole thing such that the flames have the potential to reach twenty-five feet. I don’t want the entire neighborhood seeing the fire, and I’m not trying to send up a distress signal, though god knows I could sure use one.
I’m actually quite frightened of fire, so when I say I put a little gas on the pile, it was literally just a few drops. The rest I’ll save for my lawnmower. I go back to the house and return with the barbeque lighter. Gripping the lighter tightly, I get real close, light the table, and step back fast as the gas feeds the flame. It doesn’t erupt. Also, there’s sadly no mini-explosion or fire show, and the flames don’t even really get going. Rather, they more like just flicker a shade. I’ll probably, because I have the worst luck ever the past few days, have to light it like twenty times to get the damn table to burn.
Before I can consider the legality of burning a bunch of household junk in a tiny fire pit in my freaking backyard, the doorbell rings. And since the patio door is open, I can hear it clearly from out here. It’s either the cops sent by the home store guy, wondering who I’m murdering in here, the fire department because someone saw smoke and phoned to report me already, or my future fake boyfriend.
I know it’s not family or friends because they always text first. Always. I live quite far out, so everyone makes plans before randomly dropping by to see if I’m home. I suppose it could be the grandmother coming back to give me another old lady beat down, but I don’t think so.
I think she beat her grandson by a few hours at most. I wonder where she flew in from. You know, on her broomstick. Ha. Just kidding. She probably has a private jet, and she probably came from somewhere exotic, though I think she lives in Paris. The fact that she chooses to live there means she likes it, which means her last name is probably a bunch of phony bolognas.
I hoof it fast to the front door. If it’s not the grandson, my boss, the demon god of kisses, then I need to defuse the situation and fast.
The guy at the front door might be big and broad-shouldered, but he’s no cop, and he’s no firefighter. No, I don’t have a uniform fetish, and that’s not my fantasy. I’m just saying. Asher Paris does just fine in a tight heather gray t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. Oh, and canvas shoes. High tops in black, which are nothing fancy. Totally ordinary, and no haute couture for him. Nothing to say his granny is one of the world’s foremost, most famous, and one of the richest designers.
He crosses his arms and stares me down with eyes so blue that they rival the sky. Mountains probably take their granite ridges and trees their towering structure from Asher’s face and body. His presence is like a clap of thunder right when a person thinks the storm has finally passed—the kind of thunder which reminds you that you’re right in the heart of the eye.
I remember what his granny said about me not telling him about the money, which probably means she also doesn’t want me to tell him that she was here at all, so I try and act surprised. “What are you doing here?” I squeak. “How did you know this is where I live?”