Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
I simply do not have the time to flirt with another clown.
He doesn’t get my urgency, though.
Because he doesn’t reply. It’s like I never even spoke.
Which pisses me off even more.
Putting a hand on my hip, I ask, “Are you another one of my bodyguards? Because if you are, then I’m going to be very angry. And trust me when I say you do not want that.”
That gets me an answer.
Not right away, though. First, it gets me a movement.
His arm.
Lifting in the darkness, reaching up.
Going up to his face.
Actually, going up to his lips.
A cigarette is pinched between his fingers, bright and glow-y, and he puts it in his mouth, sucks in a breath—I squint my eyes and notice his chest moving that I have to say seems really broad—and then, a whorl of smoke is being released into the air.
Then, “Why not?”
I get momentarily distracted by not only his smoking—all casual and careless—but also his voice.
Which is deep.
Deeper than any other voices I’ve ever heard.
Like he’s got a bottomless well inside of him.
And that bottomless well is filled with gravel. Because his voice has that quality too.
Gravelly and deep.
Keeping my hand on my hip, I declare, “Because I’m dangerous when I’m angry.”
“Define dangerous.”
“I bite.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, I also scratch.”
“That does sound dangerous.”
“It is.” I nod. “The last man I bit had to go to the hospital.”
It’s not all a lie.
I did bite one of my bodyguards last year.
Because he took my flirting a little too seriously. He actually thought that if he let me go to the party my parents didn’t want me to, I’d really show him my breasts. I wasn’t going to and I told him that. So when he started to get mad and a little handsy, I bit him.
Plus scratched his face.
He bled a little, but other than that, he was fine. No hospitalizations.
I, on the other hand, was grounded.
For a whole month for injuring a member of the staff. Who tried to force himself on me, hello? But my mom said it was me who’d provoked him, so I was the one who needed punishment.
“So?” I prompt him. “Are you? One of my bodyguards.”
“Sounds like the world needs protection from you,” he says in that deep voice of his. “Not the other way around.”
“So what, is that a no?”
“Although I will say you probably shouldn’t do that.”
“Do what?”
I detect another movement.
This time he uses the hand, the one with the cigarette, to first point at me before taking in another drag and releasing a puffy cloud of smoke. “Take that off.”
“Take what off?”
“In front of me.”
“I don’t…”
Oh.
Oh!
Okay.
I get it now.
He’s talking about my bra. Which I was in the process of taking off as I ran through the garden. Mostly because I hate wearing bras. To be fair, what girl doesn’t? In any case, I believe in being free and unencumbered. That’s why instead of wearing winter boots, I only have slippers on—the kind you wear on a beach—and I left my sweater behind in my room.
What can I say, I also love the cold.
But anyway, one strap dangling down my arm, I ask, “Why not?”
“Because I don’t think it’s very safe to take off an article of clothing in front of a strange man.”
“Why, are you a perv?” I ask instead.
“I could be,” he replies.
I tilt my head to the side, thinking about him.
Of course he could be a perv.
He could be anyone.
But for some reason, as annoying as the interruption is, I don’t think so.
“Nah, you’re not a perv,” I tell him.
“Why is that?”
“First, because you gave me that advice and I’m assuming it’s well intentioned and you don’t even know me,” I inform him. “And second, I don’t think a perv would admit they’re one.”
He studies me for a beat.
I don’t know how I know that because as I said, it’s dark and I can’t see anything at all. But I do feel like he’s running his eyes over me. Which I have to say, I like very much.
And that’s intriguing.
Because even though I flirt and use my charms as much as I can to get what I want, I don’t enjoy it. I don’t enjoy men’s eyes on me. I don’t enjoy the thoughts running through their heads when they look at me.
I don’t enjoy being a slut.
But back to him.
The mysterious man takes another drag of his cigarette as he replies, “Well, then allow me to tell you all about the white van I drive with a big mattress in the back. And how I use candy to lure unsuspecting girls in so I can take them away.”
Nah, definitely not a perv.
After dealing with them most of my life, I don’t get that feeling from him.
“I don’t think girls like candies anymore,” I share, chuckling.
“No?”
“No.”
“So what do girls like these days?”