Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
“When all you talk about is sex hovels and shit, it’s easy to assume. Which, by the way, I hope Janine was able to leave your apartment without a raging UTI.”
“Janine?” he asks, and I squint.
“Isn’t that what you said her name was?”
“Yeah, but that was forever ago, Turn. This week, it’s Lucy.”
Forever ago? More like one week ago.
“Of course.” I laugh. “How silly of me.”
“Yeah, dude, it’s ridiculous. Come on.”
I roll my eyes and grab my laptop to open the page comparing TVs.
“Anyway, I am in the middle of a run. Is there a reason you called?”
“Yeah…” I’m just about to dive into asking Cap’s advice on the latest and greatest in all things technology when music comes on next door at a near-deafening volume.
My attention is instantly rerouted.
“Helllloooo,” Cap calls. “Earth to Trent Turner. Come in, Trent Turner.”
I drag out the sound of my I as I make a command decision. “I-I-I’m gonna have to call you back.”
“What the hell? You called me.”
I don’t explain before hanging up. In fact, it’s the perfect moment to give him a little taste of his own medicine.
But not even fifteen seconds later, my phone pings with a text.
Shocker.
Cap: You fuck.
Cap: P.S. You have a date with Susie Gimble. Maybe you should, you know, call me back so I can tell you the details.
Cap: P.P.S. If you choose not to call me back, I will be forced to send her to your apartment at the time and date of my choosing.
Jesus. And here I hoped he’d be too busy with his sick sex hovels to remember the whole Susie Gimble thing entirely.
Whatever. I’ll deal with him later.
Right now, my mind is focused on something else.
Someone else, actually. A certain someone who is slowly becoming the most intriguing human being I’ve ever met.
I drop my phone onto my kitchen counter and head for the door, in the direction of the apparent nightclub that’s just opened next door.
Greer
I’m halfway into my chorus, shaking my butt and pulling the string of my thong up and out of my pajama pants—you know, to go with the theme of the song—when my door shakes again, kind of like it did two nights ago.
I shake my hips as Sisqó sings about how scandalous I am and head for the door.
With one quick swipe, I put the umbrella up on my shoulder and turn the knob.
He’s smiling until he sees the makeshift weapon and ducks, hands up in defense.
I dissolve into a fit of laughter.
“Oh my God, you should have seen your face. Thinking I would actually swing this at you.” I drop it back into the holder, leave the door open, and walk back into my apartment as he shouts to be heard over the music.
“You just swung it at me the other night!”
“But is past behavior really a precedent for future?” I challenge.
“Yes!” he yells with a disbelieving smile. “There’s even a quote about it. Past behavior is the best predictor of future behavior!”
“Oh well!” I shrug nonchalantly, and then quick as a whip, I’m hit with the realization that this is the first face-to-face interaction we’ve had since he found out I was playing Dear Abby with a burner phone. “Did you change your mind?”
“Change my mind?” he shouts over the music. “About what!”
“Fire…murder…kidnap… You know, change your mind!”
He laughs and shakes his head. “No!”
Thank everything for that.
“Okay, good!” A sigh of relief leaves my lips just as Sisqó really starts to get into it and the bass coming from my speakers jumps up a few notches.
Trent winces a little and puts a hand to his ear. “Can we turn the music down?”
“Are you kidding?” I shout. “This is the ‘Thong Song.’ The only way to play it is at full volume!”
Resigned to his fate, but plainly too stuffy to join in, he watches as I dance around the room from his spot behind the couch, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jeans.
I sway my hips just like I was before and even drop into a slightly more conservative twerk.
Through all of it, he watches—intently.
So much so, the weight of his stare makes my stomach sink and turn over all at the same time.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he’s…attracted to me.
But that can’t be right, so I shake my head to clear my vision.
When the song finally comes to a close, he’s still looking at me like he can see through my clothes, and I’m still confused.
I chatter to distract myself. “You disrespected the song, you know? Just standing there like that. You don’t stand still while the ‘Thong Song’ is on.”
“I was watching you,” he says simply, and I shut my big mouth. Because, yeah, I know. “What’s with partying like it’s 1999?”
“Ah, so you do respect the song. You wouldn’t know what year it was from if you didn’t.”