Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 118(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 118(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
I thought Malcom would laugh or smile or react in some kind of semi-feisty-combative way like I’m used to, but to my surprise, his jaw slowly drops slightly, and he just looks back at me for a moment before frowning and shaking his head.
“Women. Always full of themselves.” Then he turns from me and heads for the door.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll print out a copy of this for you and have Caroline bring it over for you tomorrow,” he says as he steps outside. “But you’re all set. Feel free to keep moving your stuff in. It’s a no pets building, but I’m sure she informed you of that.”
My blood pressure high, I follow him outside. “Women always full of themselves? Did you really just say that?”
Malcom thumbs the remote to unlock his Maserati and pulls the door open. He glances back at me and smiles. “What, do you really want to have a debate with me right now, Ellen?”
“Ellen? Who are you, Tucker Carlsen?”
Malcom just laughs, gets in his car, and pulls away, leaving me standing on my own outside of my new apartment, feeling much less satisfied than I should be feeling in this moment. I should be happy, relieved, excited to be hitting the thrift shops for furniture and knick-knacks to deck the place out and make it mine—to make it a home—but instead, I’m pissed off. I’m wondering if I completely misjudged Malcom, wondering if I gave the wrong man my virginity and why the hell I even slept with him to begin with.
* * *
It’s nearly 1a.m. by the time I’m fully settled and unpacked. I absolutely hate moving. There’s nothing worse than moving—I’m convinced of that. Next to things like torture and prison, of course. But I’m talking about normal life things for normal people who aren’t criminals and aren’t being sent to war. Then it’s moving or having to work a double shift that turns into fifteen hours when you were called in unexpectedly to open when you were told it was your day off, and that waitress who hates you for reasons you still can’t figure out is also working and has decided to make your life hell today because her boyfriend broke up with her.
But really, it’s still moving. It’s the worst.
So I’m lying on my comforter and pile of blankets that’s going to serve as my bed tonight until I can get an actual mattress in here, staring up at the ceiling, trying and failing to think of anything but Malcom. But it’s impossible to get him out of my mind.
Why didn’t he call me? He didn’t actually give me a reason, and I’m a pretty decent judge of character. I mean, I knew that Chris wasn’t really into me. I knew Bianca had bad news for me that night when I came home. I generally know there’s drama at work before anyone comes out and gossips about it.
So then why didn’t I know that Malcom was just using me? It just doesn’t make any sense. Unless of course Malcom is just another player like Chris, but that doesn’t feel right to me either.
I sit up, grab my keys, and rush outside to the car. I shouldn’t be doing this, and I know that, but I start driving over to Malcom’s house anyway. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m going to look like a total psycho bitch when I show up there asking for answers, but I also know that the chances of me getting to sleep without a handful of prescription drugs (which is not something I do), is about zero percent. Besides, the lease has already been signed, and he and I have a…special relationship. He’s not going to kick me out on day one for showing up and starting some shit. Is he?
It doesn’t take long for me to reach his house, but it’s long enough for a good deal of my confidence to slink away. I thought I would be able to just blow down the driveway and march right up to his front door, but embarrassingly, what ends up happening is I just pull up and park about a block away and gaze at the lights that are still glowing in the windows. At this hour, you prick? What are you still doing up?
This is so humiliating. Everything that has happened between Malcom and me has been a bad choice. There’s a tightness in my chest that seems to be spreading—gripping me like the fist of a really big man intent on crushing me into Erika-paste. I really should just go home. I know that. And I’m about to—I really am—but that’s when the car with the pretty girl pulls up.
A gorgeous girl. Even though she has her hair up, she’s wearing makeup and lipstick that makes her look like a model. She does exactly what I wanted to do and pulls right up to Malcom’s door, parks, gets out, and marches right up to his house, wearing a tight black skirt and heels that I can hear click-clacking in the night from where I’m parked.