Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 92254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Just keep going. Push forward. Don’t give him time to decide I’m better off with my brains painting the wall.
“No,” he says and when I look over, the gun’s gone. That’s a huge relief. I’m sweating and my heart’s on fire and all I want to do is run the hell away from here, but the guy could still pop my skull with his hands like a balloon if he wanted.
This is exactly how I felt the last time I went urban exploring and the cops showed up. Well, this is probably worse. The cops were just going to arrest me.
This guy might snap my spine in half.
Curiosity never works out great for me.
“No to which? The broom or the trash bags?” I’m babbling but I can’t help myself. “Don’t worry either way. I can go grab some stuff and—”
“No, you’re not going to help.”
“Really, it’s no trouble. I don’t know what happened here and it’s definitely none of my business, but you have a long night ahead of you and it’s already late. I’m happy to pitch in.”
There’s a moment when I think he’s going to pull the gun again. We stare at each other across the kitchen counter, and he slowly leans into the space between us. I’m beaming like a moron and trying to exude positivity. Totally normal, everything’s absolutely fine, no reason to think I’m a threat. I’m struck again at how insanely attractive he is, and the thought of him flexing and lifting and getting all sweaty as he cleans gets my knees shaking. Not with fear this time. And that’s how I know I’m a very deeply damaged individual.
“Are you trying to see the rest of my underwear drawer?” he asks very softly, with a smile on his face.
A joke. He’s making another joke.
It takes a second to process.
“It’s not like that,” I say quickly, even though it’s obvious he’s only messing with me.
“You sure? I can save you the trouble and show you where my socks are.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Your socks?”
“I assume you’re into a wide range of kinks.”
“Are you implying that I have a foot fetish right now?”
“If the shoe fits.”
Oh my god. He’s making puns.
“You’re a monster. I wish you’d just point that gun at me again.”
“We can do that too if you want.”
I laugh, not because I’m finding this particularly funny, but because it defuses the tension. He’s smirking at me, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was flirting.
But normal men don’t flirt with underwear thieves.
Which is me, apparently.
“Just let me help straighten up. It won’t take that long.”
“You really don’t need to.”
I find a broom and a dustpan in the pantry, plus a few empty trash bags in a closet. There’s not much else around, which is odd. Does the guy actually live here? Because it doesn’t feel like anyone possibly could.
He wordlessly accepts a bag, and we start collecting the shards of broken plates.
I’m not sure what I’m doing. Helping some random guy that was just pointing a gun at me and accusing me of being into feet isn’t exactly how I pictured the end of tonight going. Mom will be wake early, and I want to be up to see her before she goes to her doctor’s appointment, but if I’m not in bed soon, I’m going to sleep too late.
“What’s your name?” he asks as he sweeps and I gather.
“Lena. What about you?”
“Arsen.”
“Nice to meet you, I guess.”
“It’s strange the way you can live around people but never really know them at all.”
No kidding. Tonight I learned I have a psycho terrifying monster living down the hall.,
“That’s pretty normal, right?” I laugh awkwardly. “:We’ve all got our own little bubbles.”
“My bubble feels too big right about now,” he murmurs and catches my eyes.
My heart goes wild.
One look and the man makes me want to melt into him.
Put that gun against my head and take me, scary neighbor man.
I’m particularly deranged this evening it seems.
I can’t make myself leave. We move into the living room. I want to ask him why he’s not calling the cops or acting like this is even a big deal, but he seems intent on not talking about the reason we’re cleaning his place. The big old messy elephant in the room. I help him trash the couch stuffing and toss the shards of some pottery.
“Didn’t take care of this very well,” he says, holding up the dried husk of what I think was once a snake plant.
“No judgment here. I could kill sand if given the opportunity.”
“That’s a real skill.”
“Tell me about it. My mom got me sea monkeys one time when I was little, and I drank them after like a day.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You drank sea monkeys?”
“Yep, I couldn’t help myself. I really wanted to know what they tasted like.”