Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Britney stands, saying nothing, listening with new ears to Raylen’s suddenly not-so-wild-sounding claims.
“And, if someone could do that—lie and steal that easily—is it that hard to imagine they could just lie about anything? Create an entire life out of whole cloth? Carry on a masquerade for years and years, just to take advantage of the suckers who want to believe the lie?”
Britney begins to feel dizzy, the booze, the elevator, the words she’s hearing all colliding in her mind and causing her to feel unsteady. “What are you saying?” Britney asks.
“Your little friend,” Raylen coos with a saccharine softness mixed with venom, “she better watch herself. That’s all I’m saying. They’re not good people, hot stuff. And they’re weird. Always together. The whole family all together at a romance convention? Don’t you think that’s… odd?”
Britney did not, in fact, think it odd at all until this very moment. But now…
“They’ve got an agenda,” Leslie whispers. “And I wouldn’t put anything past them. I wouldn’t be surprised if their lies go much deeper than ‘Tank Watson.’”
Britney’s head snaps to face Leslie’s grinning maw.
“Oh, yeah. I know too. He thinks he’s clever, but he’s not. Y’know… I wouldn’t be surprised if Steve wrote all those damn SS books himself.”
Sometime later, maybe weeks or months from now, Britney might be able to look back to this moment and recognize it as the one in which a switch was triggered. A switch in her brain that set into motion a chain of events that would change all of their lives.
But here, now, in the present, all she can do is blink as her imagination takes flight.
And, as if choreographed by the gods of sinister coincidence, at that precise instant, the elevator dings, the doors open, and Leslie Munch-slash-Raylen Star steps off, leaving Britney Kincaid alone. To fret. And worry. And allow her imagination to run to dark, nefarious, duplicitous thoughts, indeed.
CHAPTER NINE
DAY THREE — THE PANELS
“Cordy. Hey,” whispered in my ear is the thing that wakes me up.
It takes me a second to remember where I am. But then, as my eyes flutter open and I see the dawn light glinting off the buildings outside the window, and the desert and mountains touching the sun in the distance, it all washes back over me.
Hands. Pulling off my Skinny Laminx.
Fingers. Rubbing at my flesh.
Rose petals. Spilling around me.
Me. Back arched. Hips thrust upward. Screaming, “Choke me harder!”
Hair…
Wait. What? “Choke me harder?”
Was that me? Did I—was I—did he—
What the hell?
“Good morning,” Steve says, this time just above a whisper.
Shaking off the cobwebs, I sit up and look around, realizing exactly where I am. Steve sits on the edge of the bed, already dressed (jeans and a loose button-down. He looks effortlessly cool. Just something I notice), and sweeps a strand of hair off my cheek.
“Uh. Hi. Good morning,” I croak out, then clear my throat and try again. “Good morning. Hi.”
“Sleep okay?”
“Um. Yeah. Yeah. I think so. Yeah,” I say. He nods a little and smiles. “What time is it?”
“A little after six.”
“You’re already dressed.”
“Yeah. I have to get downstairs to make sure everything’s all set up for panels.”
“Oh, right.”
“I ordered you some breakfast.” He gestures to the living room area, where I can see a veritable smorgasbord laid out.
“You’re not eating?” I ask.
“I’ll grab something downstairs.”
I can feel myself frown.
“What?” he asks.
“That’s just… a lot of food. For one person.” My hand immediately goes to my stomach and I look around for my Skinnies.
“I know. I just… I don’t know what you like, so I just had them bring up pretty much everything.”
I blink and shake my head, because there are clearly still some cobwebs that need clearing out. “You… what?”
“Listen, I gotta run, but you take your time here, eat something, hang out, and I’ll see you downstairs whenever you come down. Gonna be a big day.” He grins at that and winks. Without thinking, I start immediately scratching at my neck. “Shoot,” he says. “Do you still need cortisone?” He starts looking around. “I know, I—”
I reach out and take his hand. I don’t intend to. It just happens. “No, no, I’m fine.”
He looks at where my fingers wrap around his and smiles again. “Okay,” he says, squeezing and lifting the back of my hand to kiss it. “Because I had them check and there are definitely no bedbugs in here.” His smile widens and I giggle, coquettishly, and—very much unlike me—don’t immediately judge myself for doing it.
“Okay. Thanks.”
There’s a moment where we look into each other’s eyes, both of us smiling like oddballs. I feel the distinct energy of two people trying to figure out if they should kiss or not, but after a second, he breaks the spell and says, “Okay. See you in a bit.” Then he stands, walks out toward the living room, looks back over his shoulder—I get a tickle in my stomach—and then he’s gone.