Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 119212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Right now, we were both moving stealthily.
The secret agent and the assassin.
We were business-like.
We’d even gone to Sasha’s and changed clothes. All black.
I wanted to wear a mask. I had a cool, skull-looking one at my place, but Sasha vetoed it, saying we’d for sure get cops called on us then. So, we were going no mask, but still all black, and though my heart was thumping out of my chest, both of us were the epitome of a Toilet Paper SEAL Team being called in.
It was effin’ awesome.
Sasha lifted the back door. We each took an entire case of rolls and then we went to work.
Cut had told me once that Chad’s side of the house was the smaller one, so that’s where we went. We went over, stopped in the lawn, and perused the house. Then, exchanging a nod, we got to work.
The toilet paper cases were dropped on the lawn. Tore open. And the first roll was out, being cocked back, and we each let ’em loose. They flew through the air, the paper trailing behind it looking like a small, fluttering little kite tail. It was a sight to behold. Absolutely glorious.
I went back to Matilda and grabbed some earbuds from my purse.
A good bass and some rap beat were going to make this night epic.
* * *
An hour later, the entire front was covered.
We weren’t thinking. We should’ve done the back first, but we had already committed. We couldn’t back out now.
Sasha waved and yelled over my music, “I’m going to the side.”
I nodded, trekking back to Matilda for my third case of toilet paper. This stuff was caked on in some places.
Then I headed to the backyard.
* * *
Two hours later, Eminem and the 8 Mile soundtrack was blasting in my ears and most of the backyard was done.
Over the windows.
Tucked in between some of the siding.
Over, around, and through the hedges.
Under some of the rocks. Over the rocks.
I had made trails of toilet paper over and around the other piles of toilet paper. I was considering the logistics of making a whole toilet paper igloo when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Expecting Sasha, I was smiling, and knowing I looked a little drunk because that was the level I was on, I turned and it was not Sasha.
Not Sasha at all.
My Not-Brother was glowering at me.
He was so not happy.
Fucking Chad.
18
Cheyenne
My Not-Brother reeked of cologne, perfume, sweat, and smoke.
He was also still not happy, even thirty minutes later. He first showed up with a whole entourage of people. When he tapped my shoulder, I saw him, saw Sasha behind him, and then saw everyone else behind her. The women were barely clothed, but with some seriously rad clothes. Sequins and glitter galore. I’d be in heaven if we were doing nightclub costume night. Their hair was all sleek, even late in the night, and their makeup was barely smudged.
I needed to find those women and ask for pointers. When I went dancing, my makeup was easily streaking off of me within an hour. I’ve been told that’s the con of being in shape, you sweat easily—okay, I was getting off track.
Back on track.
But first, Sasha. She was pissed when Chad showed up.
Her arms were crossed. Her mouth tight. She wasn’t talking to him, even when his glower faded when he looked at her. My Not-Brother was muscular, maybe around five eleven. He looked like a little body builder, but not to the extreme levels they were. A box-like jaw. His hair had reddish hints, but it was mostly brown now. I remembered those eyes. They’d been pretty in school, and his eyelashes were all long and curly. I didn’t usually notice eyelashes on guys, but he’d been my brother back then, and I remember thinking that he got a mom, a little brother, and those eyelashes? Lucky ducker.
Even my brain was autocorrecting me now.
When he looked at me, he was all scowls. When he looked at Sasha, he was all regret. Could see it a million miles away, but Sash, she wouldn’t look at him.
He’d sent his entourage away by now, and we were now inside the generously toiled-papered house. He raised a hand and gripped the back of his head. “Sasha—”
She turned away, for the thirtieth time.
I’m not exaggerating.
And I frowned. “Are you calling the cops?”
I couldn’t remember if he told me. He probably did. My mind had been distracted by all the outfits behind him before he sent them away, and he let out an aggrieved sigh now.
I was sure he told me.
“I already told you—” See. “I didn’t call them.”
Sasha said, only looking at me, “He got an alert on his phone. We tripped the security when you went into the backyard.”
My bad.
She kept on, “But it took him forty minutes to notice because he’d been getting two lap dances at Bresko’s.”