Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“Yes?”
Her nose wrinkles. “Do you …”
“Do I?”
“Have any lube?”
I blink several times.
“We wanna try something.”
“It won’t fit.” I cringe. Those words come out of total instinct. “I mean … no, I don’t have lube. Freya, just go to sleep. Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”
She rolls her eyes and walks toward me. “Yes, but it’s only nine-thirty. I wonder if something like olive oil would work.”
“Whoa!” I snatch the bottle by the stove before she grabs it. “No. I bought this. I don’t mind you using it for cooking, but I’m not letting you take it into the bedroom.”
“I’ll buy you a new bottle.”
I continue to hug the olive oil to my chest. “What if it’s not safe? What if it reacts with the latex condom and weakens it?”
Her brow furrows. “You think we should use a condom? We’ve both been tested, and we’re done with …” She rubs her lips together and somewhat indiscreetly points her finger south. “The front hole.”
Shoving the bottle toward her, I grimace. “Take it; just stop talking about it. And you owe me a new bottle. Same brand, and no cheap shit.”
“Thanks, Anna. You’re the best!” She scurries off with the bottle.
Within minutes, the apartment is filled with a new chant—oh … ow … god … slower.
Thankfully, I don’t have to work tomorrow. Snatching my purse from the counter, I head to the bar across the street next to the pizza place where I had my first official date with the jackass neighbor guy.
“Anna Black, what can I get you?” Travis asks me from behind the bar as he flips a white towel over his shoulder.
“Let’s see … Freya just took my expensive bottle of olive oil to her bedroom to use as lube …” I tap my finger on my chin.
Travis laughs. “Tequila it is.”
After two shots, I forget about my olive oil, and my relaxed gaze starts to wander around the bar, snagging on the couple toward the back by the restrooms.
Eric Fucking Steinmann has a beer in one hand and the ass of some girl in his other hand while they stand in a circle chatting with another couple I’ve never seen before.
When Eric’s attention shifts to the television for a few seconds and then makes its casual sweep of the room, I can’t avert my gaze fast enough. And once he notices me, I find moving any part of my body impossible.
I hate him.
He’s pure evil.
If the devil walked the earth in human form, it would be Eric Steinmann, looking like sin, fucking women in public restrooms, and eyeing them in bars like he’s doing to me.
He’s right. I should write another book. He’ll be the villain, and the heroine will kill him, but not before removing his balls with toenail clippers and his dick with a nail file.
I have a mani-pedi tomorrow … they’re the first weapons that come to mind.
My phone chimes, bringing me out of my murderous trance. It’s a text from my mom.
I just finished The Last Person. It was okay. Don’t be mad. I’m not sure it’s the best book I’ve ever read. Some areas of the story were a bit wordy, and I’m surprised I found so many typos in a published book. Sidenote: Did you see the new miniseries released on Hulu? Good night.
My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach. There it is. The person who should be the most biased about me and my writing is my mom. And she would be … if she knew I wrote the book.
She doesn’t. I never told anyone because I didn’t want to see their faces if I failed. This makes my mom the most authentic example of unbiased honesty—the best constructive criticism and a reality check I didn’t see coming.
I take down another shot of tequila … then another. Then I have to pee. Luckily, I have just enough alcohol in my body not to care that Eric and his new girl are blocking the way to the toilet.
Swaying a bit as I stand, I gather my bearings and worm through the crowd, feeling slightly numb while the room spins. “Excuse me. Pardon me,” I mumble. As I approach Eric, he eyes me with a worried brow and pitiful frown.
“Excuse me. I need through to pee.” I offer a stiff grin.
The blond girl on his arm and the other couple smile and part the sea for me to pee. I giggle when I realize my brain rhymed. Maybe I’m not a novelist. Perhaps I’m a poet like Eric’s grandma.
I take a few wobbly steps, and Eric’s hand moves from the blond girl’s ass to my arm, steadying me.
“Anna, I think you should go home,” he says.
My hands fly out to the side like a cat preparing to land on its feet. “I’m good. I just need to pee and can’t go home until anal is over.” I continue forward as Eric’s friends snigger behind me.