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)
This was the only way I could think to do it and save us both a lot of trouble ahead. It truly sucks right now, but it’s for the best. If I could have thought of any other way to get the ring off, I would have done it. Well, short of cutting my finger off because I wouldn’t have done that. No matter how many times it was suggested, the idea never grew on me.
It’s morning now, and I feel like a wreck. By now, Ash has to know what happened. No one has shown up at my door yet, buzzing my apartment and demanding for me to come down. No one from the media, no lawyers come to serve my ass with a lawsuit, no angry granny, no vengeful brother or cousins, and no ex-soulmate.
I need to get my act together. I need to get off this chair, which I’ve been perched on for the past few hours, even though it’s pretty much as uncomfortable as the window ledge. I need to shower, change my clothes, brush my teeth, and start on damage control.
I better start working on my resume too.
God, I am so fucked.
I’m just scraping my rather numb behind off the chair and stretching my arms above my head to work out the kinks when a very familiar black sedan pulls up at the curb in front of the building.
“Shit!” I immediately drop down and belly crawl to the window so I can’t be seen. “Holy shit. Crap. Fuck. Shit fuck. Crap shit fuck.” I drag myself up to peep above the ledge, and yup. It’s Granny, alright. Sans ballgown and in a more regular pink pantsuit—did I just call a pantsuit regular??—she’s still pretty gorgeous. And Ash is right beside her. Also, I note that in a regular t-shirt and jeans, he’s as gorgeous as ever.
“Fuck,” I hiss again. I scramble away from the window and…and what?
Where exactly am I supposed to go? I could throw together a bag real fast, grab my laptop, my phone, and my keys before bailing out the back door, getting in my car, and heading to my dad’s, but they’d probably try there next. I can’t just abandon Dad. If I have to leave New Orleans, it’s going to break his heart. It’ll break mine too, knowing I did all this to try and avenge him, when really, all I did was play with guns and shoot us both in the foot with bullets.
“Fudge my life with the fudgiest fudge.”
The buzzer rings. I let out a screech, rush to the kitchen, and grab a frying pan. If they’ve come to fuck me up, then I’ll be ready. Goddamn it, I knew Granny had underworld connections when I saw her car.
Oh really? Where are her goons then? Because Ash and his granny are walking up to the door alone. The goons are probably around back, kicking in the back door to make sure I can’t escape. Or maybe they’re coming. Ash and his granny are walking up all innocent and sweet, but the goons will probably follow once they’re in place.
Who am I kidding? Ash’s granny is badass enough that she wouldn’t need goons to dispense me. She’s probably packing heat in the designer handbag I saw looped around her small arm.
The buzzer goes off again. Should I answer? Is it worse to try and avoid my fate, or should I just face it? Maybe they’ve come with bribe money. It could be that they want to pay me for damage control, to say I made the whole thing up. Perhaps I should just get whatever this is out of the way so we can all move on. I put my name on the article for a reason. Because I didn’t want to be a coward. So why am I hiding up here now?
I make a quick decision. If I go to the front door, they probably can’t murder me there or fuck me up or whatever because people would see. It’s like somewhere around ten or eleven in the morning, so there have to be people outside walking and driving by—witnesses.
I head out of my apartment and down the two flights of stairs to the front door. I don’t even realize I’m still clutching the frying pan until I open the glass front door, and Ash stares right at it before he even looks at me.
“What are you doing with that?” his granny asks. She sounds pleasant and not at all like she’s got a secret handgun she’s about to use on me. Or maybe a set of brass knuckles. I could see her donning those. They’d suit her well.
I bring the frying pan up and look at it before swiftly tucking it behind my back with both hands. “Uh, I was cooking eggs,” I mumble. “Yeah. Eggs.”