Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 147649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Except that’s not true, is it? I’ve seen eyes this green before, a couple times at least.
It’s Russ Roth. Only he’s… different. No uniform, for one. He’s wearing a leather jacket with patches on it, like a biker jacket, and not like my biker jacket, which is a fashion statement. His looks old, and worn, and the patches have legit things going on. There are three thin rectangles over the right side of his chest, stacked on top of one another. The top one says ‘Savage Springs.’ The middle one says ‘Him, Himself.’ And the bottom one is a timestamp that reads ‘11:11.’
On the other side of the jacket is a winged heart. But it’s not a sweet Valentine’s Day heart. It’s an anatomical heart, which kind of makes sense because it’s placed over his heart. All around these red and gold patches is chaos. I don’t know a lot about bikers, but I’ve seen movies. And I think these chaos patches are testimonials to events that one attends.
He’s wearing a white thermal under the jacket and old, faded jeans ending in black work boots. His hair is a little longer, his face scruffier. But even if all these differences weren’t so obviously on display, I would know that this is not really Russ Roth just by the way he stands. It’s like… I dunno. Like he owns the world, or something. Nothing can touch him. Everyone wants to be him.
And even if I didn’t already guess who he really was—the wings are a dead giveaway.
Well. Not a dead giveaway. When I picture a cupid, I see a fat baby with white wings and a cheap dollar-store bow and arrow. This guy here has black wings.
And just as I think that, he winks at me.
That’s when I notice the crossbow.
He aims the crossbow right at me and I panic, stupidly stepping back with my hands up. “Let’s just talk about th—”
That’s as far as I get. The bolt slams into my heart and the next thing I know I’m on the ground, looking up at the sky.
A face appears above. “Why, I think you fell down. Do you need a hand up, sweetheart?”
I begin to smile stupidly. “Hi.” This comes out like a whisper, with a little wave of my fingers, and shrug of my shoulders, and then I’m making kissing noises at him and—
Holy shit. Am I flirting with the fucking devil?
“Oh, no, no, no!” I snap out of it. “Fuck this!” I turn onto my hands and knees, get up, and run. But it feels like I’m running in mud. Like I’m stuck in one of those dreams. “Noooooooo!” I yell it as I look over my shoulder. But even the word is in slow motion. Because he’s not the devil.
This is not a cupid, either.
This is an eros.
Perhaps even the Eros.
And he just smacked me in the chest with one of his love arrows!
I’m still running—still in slow motion—and a little bit tipsy. My head is all swirly. But there’s a stuck moment here. A pause in reality, perhaps. Where I have time to think about that stupid love curse I put on myself when I went on that date with Russ.
And then I laugh. I’m talking a full-on giggle. And it’s so… not the moment for this.
“Where ya goin’, Pie?”
His words bring reality crashing back just as I break free of the slow-motion mud and book it back up the hill. His accent is that same hot and sexy Pennsylvania hick. Only this version of Russ Roth does not come off as some once-upon-a-time high school quarterback.
He comes off as… definitely a monster, but not the kind of monster I’m used to. Not the grumpy Pell, or naïve Tomas, or even the conniving Batty. He comes off as… evil.
Evil. With a whole lot of beautiful tucked inside for good measure.
I can see the door. I’m almost there. Maybe fifty yards. But when you’re running up the side of a hill, fifty yards is monumental.
I know I shouldn’t—I know I should not look back. But I can’t help myself. I look over my shoulder one more time, just as I enter the trees.
But he’s gone.
Then, when I look forward again, there he is.
I stop. Actually, I stumble and fall flat on my face, my palms automatically catching myself so I don’t knock my teeth out. And when I look up, panting hard from my sprint and trembling from the predicament I’ve just put myself in, my eyes open in surprise.
Because from behind him, his wings are slowly unfolding.
Black wings. Massive wings. Not unlike Batty’s wings, but also not anything like Batty’s wings, either. They are feathered, and they are gorgeous, and I have an overwhelming urge to get up on my feet, walk over to him, and touch these wings.