Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87526 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87526 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
The drive home is quick, and after I make a quick stop to check my mail, I can get this damn box stashed away never to be seen again.
As I walk inside, I consider throwing the entire thing in the dumpster out behind the building, but that doesn’t seem right.
“Teach that bird any more foul language?”
I stop in my tracks, one hand holding my mailbox key, the other arm wrapped tightly around the damn box of sex toys.
“He already speaks too much,” I tell Whitney with a grin.
A quick look down tells me that the label on the box is folded inside, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“I found him entertaining.”
“I’m glad you were entertained by my embarrassment.”
She grins even wider. Damn if she isn’t the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
“So, I got the filthiest he had to offer?”
Does she even realize how damn sexy she is?
“He gets worse.”
I’m just grateful he didn’t see her and squawk something about Major, the character she resembles. Maybe he does have my back when it counts.
“I’d love to hear that sometime.”
“Sounds good,” I say, shuffling toward the door. “Fuck!”
If trying to get away from her because I don’t have a damn clue what to say isn’t bad enough, I manage to trip over the damn threshold in the doorway.
Cheeks flaming with heat, I run to the elevator, grateful the damn box didn’t spill all over the fucking floor. I’d never be able to explain away having a butt plug, ball gag, and twelve-inch rubber cock. I want to disappear into a hole as it is.
“Come on, come on,” I chant, pushing the call button on the elevator.
“It’s slow all the time.”
I freeze when I hear her voice again.
Luck is just not on my side today. First Deacon and now having to deal with Whitney when I’m not prepared. Someone hates me for sure.
“They just put a new one in two years ago. I think the building is cursed.”
The elevator finally dings its arrival, and I step to the side to let her enter first, pulling out my keycard that allows it to move to the twelfth floor.
“Twelfth? Swanky,” she says with a smile after pushing the nine for her floor. “You don’t have your bird in there do you?”
She eyes the box, and my pits begin to sweat thinking she may be brazen enough to peel open the top.
“No. He stayed at the office tonight.”
“I had to smuggle my cat in inside of a backpack. He wasn’t very impressed.”
“I can’t imagine he was.”
“It was nice to see you again. Tell the bird I said hi.” She waves as she steps off the elevator, but all I can manage is a quick head nod.
Man, I’m such an idiot.
To make matters worse, I fucking trip over the damn threshold getting off the elevator and again walking into my apartment. After shoving that stupid box to the back of my closet, I strip naked and get in a cold shower. I may not leave this apartment for a week with the shit I’ve been through today.
I begin to prepare a quick dinner, spent watching the bowl in the microwave spin around and around all the while trying not to picture the way Whitney looked earlier in her workout clothes. I burn my mouth on the food, stub my toe on the coffee table, and spill an entire glass of soda. How can I walk confidently one day and the next I seem to be a walking advertisement for clumsiness?
Refusing to self-diagnose a brain tumor, I grab my computer and head to my bed. At least there I’m relatively safe.
My luck changes when I find Whitney already online and running a raid with some of the other players in the group. I’ve done some stuff with them recently, and their attitudes changed very quickly once I had a better handle on how the game worked. I’ve even managed to impress some of the ones that were the biggest assholes to me. Daniel, the guy that had the most to say when I first joined, must’ve gotten a nasty computer virus because he hasn’t been back since.
As we play, I shoot Whitney chats, and she responds with short answers. Things have been a little off with her this last week. So much so that I haven’t even harassed her about getting a coffee with me in four days.
She had what appeared to be a permanent scowl while she was on the treadmill, but her smile was quick enough in the mailroom earlier, so I try again.
W45PN357: How about coffee tomorrow?
RachNRoss4Eva: Sure
I tilt my head to the side and rub my eyes.
W45PN357: Really?
RachNRoss4Eva: Yes.
I may have lifted my hands in the air and pumped my fist before responding again.
W45PN357: St. Louis Bistro? 3 pm?
RachNRoss4Eva: Sounds good. I’ll be the girl with purple hair.