Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 107687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
As I move my hand to find the lights, I realize that I’m fucking exhausted. I yawn loudly as I look around the apartment. Something is different. It’s dark as hell, minus the moonlight from the windows. When it dawns on me that the light switch is by the living room, I kick off my HEYDUDES as I hit the switch for the lamp by the door. The room fills with light, and I scrunch up my face when I notice all the boxes are gone.
“What the hell?”
Did my mom come clean? I reach for my phone in the back pocket of my shorts as I head to the light switch. I yawn loudly as I look for my mom’s number, but before I can hit her name or even hit the lights, a battle cry comes out of nowhere. I jump in surprise as I’m whacked hard in the arm with something that I quickly realize is a hockey stick. I let out my own scream as I back away from the psycho with the hockey stick.
“What the fuck!” I yell as they come toward me again, swinging and screaming. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but when I hear a crash, I realize they’ve connected with something. The end of the stick comes for my head in a loud whoosh, and I yell as I duck away. Another crash and a grunt come before they swing at me again.
“Get out!” they scream, and I know that voice belongs to a woman. “You won’t take me back! Get out!”
She swings the hell out of the stick at me again, and I duck once more as a lamp goes flying across the room.
“Jesus Christ!” I yell as she continually swings, and I determine she is coming for my head. Damn, this girl is out for blood, and I have no idea why. Finally, my wits come back, and I catch the stick as she takes another swing. “What the fuck is your problem?” I yell as my hands burn.
She yanks the stick. “I won’t go back. You can’t take me. Get out now!”
“This is my apartment!” I shout back, and I find myself in a yanking match with her. For a petite female, she’s strong as fuck. But that’s not all.
She’s not wearing pants.
Thick thighs catch my attention, and I almost comment on her cute pink toes, but then her crazy ass kicks the hell out of me.
“No! It’s mine! Get out!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, tugging the stick from her and backing away. When she goes to grab another one from where they are all lined up along the wall—neatly, I might add—I block her by holding the stick as if I’m going to cross-check her ass into the boards. Not that I would, but I hold the stick as if I’m going to. She takes hold of the inside of the stick, our eyes meeting. Such beautiful flakes of gold swirl in her honey-tinted eyes. Her pupils are wide and full of terror.
“Wait a fucking minute! There has been a mistake.”
“Get away from me!”
“Whoa, bro. Relax. I’m not going to hurt you,” I say then, and I don’t understand why she looks terrified. Yeah, I guess a man coming into what she thought was her space is a little scary, but it’s not enough to whack me with a stick when I pose no threat whatsoever. She pauses, and silence stretches between us. I reach behind me, hitting the lights, and as my eyes adjust, I find the person who was trying to score a goal with my head.
Who is also not wearing a bra.
Well, hot damn.
I move my eyes to her face. Her honey-and-gold-flake eyes are bright and wild. Her hair is dark and tousled along her shoulders. An eye mask is skewed along her forehead, and her face is flushed as she breathes in and out deeply. She’s shaking, and that does something to my heart. “I promise, I’m not going to hurt you,” I find myself whispering. “Just calm down.”
“Who sent you?” she asks, her grip on the stick so tight her knuckles are white. I feel awful for her. Why is she so afraid?
My brow perks. “No one. I live here, and I promise I mean you no harm. I was just coming home to go to bed.”
“No, this is my place.”
“Okay, again, there has been a misunderstanding,” I say, and then I let go of the stick. She jerks it to her, holding it up like she’s going to swing it at me again. I hold up my hands, trying to calm her down. “Listen, my name is Dimitri Titov. I play for the Assassins, and I moved in this morning. I have a key,” I say, holding it up, but her eyes don’t leave mine.