Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 24429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Not a chance in frozen hell.
Chapter
Three
“Kat. Wake up, baby girl.” The voice was deep and smooth, if not annoying because it cracked open the blissful shell of nothingness I had been enjoying. But somewhere in my subconscious I recognized the tone and felt no fear. At the same time, a silent alarm was going off inside me, making me feel like Quasimodo riding the bell in the tower. "Katrina.”
The voice took on an edge. A tone more like my father would have used when I wouldn’t eat my Lima beans at dinner.
Except he would have added the delightful sobriquet Ungrateful Little Bitch.
"Shhhhh, Jesus.” I flailed around in search of a pillow to tug over my head but my seeking fingers came up empty. The sandpaper texture of my tongue glued itself to the roof of my mouth.
"Get up."
I tried desperately to make sense of the voice, at once both gentle and ear-splitting. I turned my face into the corner of wherever it was I was sleeping, squeezing my eyes shut ever tighter against the waking assault and shoving the heels of my hands against my ears, but it was no use.
"I said get up. I won't ask nicely again."
“You’re not being very nice already.” As something in my brain clicked back online, the voice was identified and waves of panic rushed over me.
See, the worst part of a hangover isn’t the nausea, headache and muscles that hurt for unknown reasons. Nope.
It is that moment when consciousness breaks through, the tiny fingers of awareness tap inside your brain and then the floodgates open and all the stupid shit you said and did the night before washes over you like warm, chunky puke.
In fact, I would rather be drenched in my own vomit than have another morning replaying all the idiocy of the night before.
“Fuck. Stop. Talking.” I was begging now.
Insistent fingers pressed into the back of my neck, shaking me, while another hand swept the blanket off. Every cell in my body screamed for more sleep. More nothingness.
The room felt like a seesaw, and I pressed my face into the cushions as the gears in my head began to whine and turn, remembering where I fell asleep the night before. I already pieced together the voice, and I knew it was Jesse.
Shit. I was so fired.
Even as the grip of his strong fingers left my neck and I heard the aircon on the wall of his office come to life, my entire being was engulfed in him.
Jesse. The scent of his deep masculine coffee-with-a-side-of-sex filled my nose and only added to my self-disgust. It was a scent I’d known for so long, and it evoked emotions I’d rather not admit.
Had I really possibly thrown away the last good thing in my life?
“Go away,” I screamed, trying to fight off the sob that clutched at my throat.
I didn't want him to see me like this. What would Kent have said if he was still alive right now?
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen. You are in my god-damn office. Wake the fuck up, Kat.” His voice thickened into a deep vibrato. “I said, get up. Now do it."
His iron grip was on my arm this time, pulling it from my face, and all the evil light of a dozen hundred-watt bulbs met my red-rimmed eyes.
"Ow! Stop!”
He tugged at me until I wobbled into a semi-sitting position, desperately trying to hold back the nausea threatening to make things a million times worse.
"Why did you sleep here last night?" he demanded. "Where was Jenette?"
"She doesn't owe me anything--"
"The fuck she doesn't. I pay her rent and bills in exchange for making sure you're safe and have a locked door between you and the outside world, because you won't let me do it, and then I find you here? I'm going to kick her out on her skinny ass."
"What?" My brain was in no condition for this sort of influx of information. "Jenette's the only nice person around here," I protested.
I needed a drink.
He snorted. "Yeah, she's a sweetheart."
The familiar squeak of his desk chair had me sneaking a peek in his direction while hatching a cowardly plan to slither out of here and never come back. It’s just easier to avoid things, even if it means throwing away the last person you have on earth that honestly gives a shit about you.
I leaned forward, masking my face in my hands for a few breaths, then straightened my back, threading my fingers into the hair hanging in my face. It felt like straw. Greasy, stringy straw.
I needed to get to the bathroom and out to the bar for a glass of ice water and a shot of something before disappearing out the front door.
Through slits, I allowed myself a look at him. The star in so many of my midnight fantasies.