Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62637 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62637 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
And it’s the only thing that does the trick next to the medicine I have to take.
For some reason, the empty fridge reminds me of my empty existence. I wish I was sleeping again, dreaming about a life that could never possibly be mine. Maybe I was an author in another life? It’s the only thing that would explain the bizarre dreams I always have.
Of places I’ve never been.
Experiences I’ve never had.
Lifetimes that don’t exist.
I’ve been a princess forced into a marriage with a horribly old dictator who ended up killing me on my wedding night—write that Wattpad.
I’ve been blind and forced to beg on the streets before getting run over by a horse and crippled, only to have the doctor who fixed me up fall for me and ask me to marry him. In my dreams, he always takes care of me until I die five years later from pneumonia.
And my favorite one—I was an animal. All I remember in those dreams are that I’m happy, I’m running, I’m seductive, cunning, beautiful, and protective of my fur, whatever that means. A man visits me and tells me to wait that he’ll always return to me. I almost always wake up with a smile on my face afterward, like I’m finally at peace.
Which is really pathetic that I’d rather be an animal that can’t even communicate than a human, even in my fantasies.
Maybe I was a dog in my past life.
A cricket.
An ant.
Who knows if I even believe in past lives, but the dreams seem so real that part of me wonders how or why I’m able to construct something so real. Experts say that everyone you see in your dreams are people who you’ve actually seen in real life; the human brain isn’t capable of creating a new face, so that means every single face I’ve seen in those dreams is a face I’ve seen in passing.
Creepy when I think about it.
I start chugging my red bull and go charge my phone. I need to change for work; otherwise, grumpy Horus is going to get even more grumpy, and I’m already going to have another long night trying not to sleep, especially since tonight I get off early, which means it will be an even longer night where I have to drink caffeine and watch TV until the sunrise.
I try not to let it ruin my mood and change into the tight black SOUL T-shirt. I put on my black tights and black jean shorts and pair them with white Converse, then look in the mirror. I’m not wearing much makeup, but when I was hired, the owner, Timber, did say that I could do whatever sort of makeup I wanted.
I haven’t really done anything in a while to my eyes, so I grab some red eyeliner and pair it with some purple eyeshadow, then extend the lines past my lids onto my temples, creating a mismatched angel wing, then color it in with the purple. I line the inside of my eyelids with the red and add some blush, then glide on some bright red lipstick. After all that, I braid my hair back into two small pigtails.
“Well,” I say, staring at myself in the mirror, “this is as good as it’s going to get.”
I lie to myself and say that I don’t care what Horus’s reaction will be, and I repeat that same mantra in my head the entire walk to the bar, only to open the main door to the bar, walk by his office and nearly trip over my own feet when I see him changing his shirt.
He’s half-naked.
His jeans are so tight I swear his ass might burst through the seams. He’s balling the white T-shirt into his hands and tossing it onto his desk, only to grab it again and toss it one more time as if the shirt pissed him off. My mouth goes dry when he leans over the desk and grips it with his hands like he needs it to steady him.
He stills.
My feet won’t move.
His head crooks to the side, but he doesn’t turn around. “It’s rude to spy on someone.”
“It’s rude to change in public,” I say right back before covering my mouth with my hands.
His back muscles flex; it’s like watching a god in real life. How is he that ripped and tall at the same time? His bronzed skin has an almost glow to it.
Finally, he turns around, his blue eyes narrow. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know you hate your T-shirt?”
“I don’t hate anything. Hate means weakness.” What the heck sort of answer is that? “And you’re late.”
I look down at my phone. “No, I’ve been standing here three minutes.”
He smirks. “That long then?”
“That was trickery,” I point out.
“No, that was manipulation.” He reaches for another t-shirt on his desk, this one is black and has the logo on the front of it. Soul.