Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Good night, Mom.” I laugh.
Little does she know, sleep won’t be happening for me anytime soon because the minute I hear her door softly close, my phone chimes.
I suppress the urge to roll around on my comforter like a giddy school girl and squeal.
Matthew: Did I tell you how great you looked tonight?
Me: Actually, no you did not….
Matthew: I meant to. You looked incredible… edible… edible
Do you hear an echo?
Me: Stop it or you’ll make me blush.
Matthew: I’d also like to point out - you smelled delicious. Good enuff to eat…
Me: OMG no I didn’t. I smelled like sweat. Wait –you were smelling me?
Matthew: Um yeah. Totally smelling you. Unlike *some* people I can admit when I’m sniffing someone.
Matthew: And this might be the beer talking, but when I first saw you tonight…
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but instead lets it trail off. I inhale, staring intently at the phone, willing him with mental telepathy to send the rest of the sentence through. A few moments go by, damn him, before my phone chimes again.
Matthew: Sorry, I’m still driving. Now I’m at a red light.
Matthew: I don’t think I had the chance to tell you goodbye
Me: No. You kinda had your hands full with the four lady molesters.
Matthew: omg I had to haul every one of their asses home. Felt like I was back in college, getting my drunk friends back to the dorms.
Me: I’m surprised you weren’t drinking
Matthew: I had a few
Me: You couldn’t have had more than 2 or 3 beers…?
Matthew: Kind of at the point in my life where I want to remember what happens on the weekends. KWIM?
I smile at his reply, typing out: My sentiments exactly. Weston is passed out in Molly’s room snoring like a lumberjack. Or something like that. LOL
Another few minutes go by before he replies.
Matthew: So… are you wide awake, or just about to fall asleep?
Me: Something in between, actually…
Randomly, I think I hear knocking in the other room like someone is at the door, softly tapping at the cheap wooden door. I cock my head to the side, intently listening.
I think my mind must be playing tricks on me, but then I hear the tapping again.
Tap. Tap, tap, tap.
Me: omg Matthew. I think someone is at my door. SHIT! What should I do??????????
Matthew: DO NOT ANSWER IT. DO. NOT. ANSWER. IT
Me: I’m kind of freaking out here!!!!!!!!
Matthew: Do you have a baseball bat?
Me: No, but I think Molly has a hockey stick in the living room.
Me: Wait. Shouldn’t I just go wake Molly and Weston up???
Matthew: NO! That turd is useless when he’s drunk.
I bite down on my lower lip and hear more tapping at the front door. Shit! Why the hell don’t we have a peep hole?
Tap, tap, tap.
I stand, tip toe into the living room and cautiously grab the purple hockey stick leaning against the back wall, yet careful not to scratch the paint on it.
Which is dumb, because hello! Clearly there is a murderer outside my door.
Clutching the hockey stick in one hand, and my cell phone in the other, I debate my course of action. Several possible scenarios wait for me on the other side of the door, including:
Opening the door to be immediately axed to pieces by a raper-slash-murderer.
Opening the door to a neighbor in need of assistance.
It’s Creepy Writer Guy, and he’s here for my underwear.
It’s Creepy Writer Guy, and he’s here to rape-slash-murder-slash-axe me into pieces.
I run out of possibilities after number four. I mean… just how many people could it possibly be on the other side of this cheap plywood door?
My phone chimes, and it’s Matthew: DO NOT OPEN YOUR DOOR.
Shit, Shit, Shit.
Not only is there a creeper outside my damn door, I am wearing pajamas and look about as opposite of bad ass as a person could conceivably appear in this situation. And not just any pajamas: skimpy pajamas. I mean, if you classify a cotton camisole and drawstring shorts skimpy….
Plus, when faced with certain death, I can’t think of a single soul who would want to be slaughtered wearing PJ’s.
How humiliating.
Tap, tap, tap.
I am so bloody freaked out. I glance towards Molly’s door: surely she’s still awake? Finally, still white knuckling the hockey stick, I thumb through my contacts and tap on Matthew’s information, hit the ‘Call’ button, and hold my breath.
Resting my head against the wall next to my front door while I wait for the phone call to connect, I hold it up to my ear.
It finally starts to ring.
Hey.
Wait a minute.
My head pops up from the wall and I turn my head, pressing my ear firmly against the door. Yup… I definitely hear a ring tone coming from out in the hallway.
The theme song for Star Wars.
That jerk!
Suddenly enraged, I throw down the hockey stick and yank open the door.