Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 63563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
“You love your granny? Really? That’s sweet.”
“You make it sound like a crime.”
“Nope. Don’t know why you think that.”
I’m about to get into the fact that she’s currently staring razor-sharp daggers at me, but then she lifts her hand—strings of oil and soap trailing down to the counter—grasps the ring, and pulls. She pulls so hard that she turns red in the face, and I can see the muscles in her arms bulging. She isn’t faking it.
“Fuck!” she screams. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuccccckkkkkkkk! Motherfucking fucker of a ring!”
She’s not faking the sailor’s mouth either.
“Whoa. Hey. Calm down.”
Ellis spins on me, her eyes flashing so bright that it’s like walking through the jungle and running into one of those amber-eyed cats intent on eating you up. “Calm down?! Calm down?! You’re the one talking about cutting off my freaking finger or this cursed thing to bits, which is also off my finger. I’m the one with it stuck on, and you’re telling me to calm down?!”
Sensing an explosion is imminent, I do the first sensible thing I can think of to deflect. “Uh, the cards. Yes, you’re right. Let’s go get a tarot card reading done.”
Ellis reacts like I just slapped her, and she freezes. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, sure. Let’s go and see if anyone can tell us if the ring truly is cursed, then we’ll talk about cutting into it. You might be right. I don’t want to risk it. Uh, but where are we supposed to find someone to do the reading?”
She barks out a laugh. “Um, you live in the French Quarter, so just walk down the street. And for a guy who doesn’t believe in all the NOLA, touristy, mumbo-jumbo, you sure picked a house right in the middle of it.”
“My family is from here, and I wanted to be in the historical heart of the city. I’ll have you know I’m actually an art and history major.”
I don’t know if I’m trying to impress Ellis with that information, but I fail miserably because she tosses her hair over her shoulder with a hard flick of her neck and gives me what my grandpa liked to call the stink eye. She’s good at it too. I wither on the spot.
“Yes, you went to college and got a double major because your family has money coming out the wazoo, and you can afford to get useless degrees. Also, you’re only an artist because of your family connections. You’re…you’re like those people who just splash paint on a canvas, call it art, and then sell it for crazy amounts of money. If I tried that, it would end up sitting in a pile at a garage sale, a picked-over garage sale, because that’s all it would be good for.”
Considering what we’re dealing with, I’d say tensions are running high. I’ve heard the jab about how to make art a thousand times, so I’m going to be the better person and take the high road here. I point at Ellis’ nasty hand. “You might want to clean that up before we go.”
She gives me another stinker of a stink eye and turns toward the sink behind her. “Whaaaaaaaa!” She lets out a screech that could raise the hairs on the back of Satan’s neck himself as she starts flailing wildly. I realize she’s slipped on something, probably spilled oil on the floor, and I find myself moving.
I’m a fairly athletic guy. I work out pretty hard still, and my reaction time is excellent, which is lucky for Ellis. Because as she’s going down, I rush over, grasp her arm, and steady her. But then she flails with the other hand, hits a messy puddle of oil on the counter again, and screeches. I steady her further—meaning I keep her from killing herself with oil and dish soap—by pulling her tight against my chest and wrapping my arms around her.
I bend my head to reassure her that she’s fine, but instead, I find myself closing my eyes, and suddenly, I’m kissing her.
Not an innocent peck on the lips, either. No. This is a full, open-mouthed, hungry, raw type of kiss, lips devouring lips. Her mouth is warm and surprisingly welcoming. I wouldn’t say mine is demanding, but I’m persistent, and she’s not making noises of protest. My brain hasn’t snapped into its normal function where it tells me I shouldn’t do this, so I keep doing it. I graze my teeth over Ellis’ bottom lip. She whimpers, and as her lips part, I sweep my tongue through the seam, not like an invasion, but gently.
Ellis’ hands come up, but she doesn’t shove me away. Instead, she tangles them around my neck and lets me coax her tongue into a warm caress with mine. I’m about to go for another when something wet and slithery slides down my neck.