Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57406 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 287(@200wpm)___ 230(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57406 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 287(@200wpm)___ 230(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
“What?” Dingo shrugs. “They smell like pussy and cupcakes.” He tilts his head back, taking in a long sharp breath through his nose, then shaking his head from side to side, he exhales through smiling lips. “Cupcake pussy.”. Damn, that's what she smells like. Vanilla and nutmeg equals cupcakes.
“Let me smell,” Dylan pleads, extending his neck in my direction, sniffing the air between us, trying to get a whiff of her scent for himself.
“Both of you shut the fuck up!” I roar with jealousy and possession. Nobody will be smelling C but me. Both men become quiet, their eyes lock on mine as the tension of the situation seeps back into the air around us in the silence.
“You had your fingers in C's pussy?” Billy blurts out. He's looking over at me, his eyes wide, mouth open in disbelief, his gun still aimed at Dylan.
Ignoring Billy, I reach into my right boot and pull out the knife. Stepping back into Dingo, I place my left arm across his chest, pinning him against the side of the trailer. Bringing the knife up to his face with my right hand, I slide the latch. The blade whips out in front of his face, his eyes going wide, his smugness is now replaced with fear.
My eyes follow the sharp blade as I trace a path up and down the bare skin of his right arm from his bicep to his elbow. “I'm gonna leave you a little reminder on how to treat women, Dingo, so the next time you think about putting your hands on a woman's face, you'll think twice.” With that I push the knife in, cutting along the same path I just traced, digging it in extra deep through his new tattoo, making sure to ruin it. Blood pours from the cut as Dingo screams from the pain and fear I'm inflicting. He fights me, trying to escape but I’m much stronger and shove him back against the wall. I see Dylan make a step toward us out of the corner of my eye. Billy lets out a “tsk-tsk” beside us as he waves the gun at him, and Dylan quickly steps back with a defeated sigh. Grabbing the end of Dingo’s flannel shirt, I use it to wipe his blood off the blade then snap it closed before putting it back in my boot. Dingo grabs his bleeding arm as I step back, sliding down against the trailer to the porch, cussing and shrieking. “Let’s go,” I say to Billy. Backing down the sidewalk I look over and see the dogs, remembering C being upset they were not being fed. I grab the gun from my waistband, pointing it at Dylan, who is now bent down tending to the whining Dingo. “You in the house,” I order, waving the gun at Dylan, who snaps his head up to look at me. Billy looks at me confused but follows my lead, pointing his gun back over to Dylan who is now standing, wide-eyed, his hands in the air. Following Dylan into the house, I ask, “Fridge?” Dylan turns his hands still in the air and walks through a door on the left to the kitchen and stops in front of the refrigerator. Looking around the dirty kitchen, I spot a laundry basket overflowing with dirty clothes. “Dump it,” I demand, pointing my gun at Dylan then to the basket. Dylan looks at me and then to the basket before walking over and dumping the clothes onto the floor.
“Now what?” he asks, exasperated.
“Put the food in the basket.” I point my gun to the refrigerator. Billy, now understanding what I'm doing, tightens his grip on his gun in approval. Dylan starts putting containers of leftovers in the basket. “Take the lids off, stupid,” I sigh. Dylan looks at me confused but complies. After all the food is in the basket. Billy walks over, looking in the refrigerator to inspect Dylan's work.
“What about this one?” he asks, waving his gun at a covered casserole dish. “That's our dinner tonight, chicken enchiladas, my mom just dropped it off this morning,” Dylan explains, his eyes pleading for Billy to leave it.
“Wow, that does sound good,” Billy answers licking his lips. “Too bad you won't get to eat it.” Billy continues smiling as he removes the foil cover and places the dish in the basket with the other food. “Pick up the basket and take it to the dogs,” I command Dylan.
“Are you serious?” he questions my order, his eyes wide looking at the basket of food.
“Deadly,” Billy replies, holding his gun up, aiming at his head. Dylan sighs as he picks up the basket and walks to a side door off the kitchen that leads to the area the dogs are penned up in outside.