Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
I suppose the disowning route would have been easier for her, but I’m not walking in her super chic, ultra-expensive shoes.
Currently, I’m wearing a pair of ten-dollar high tops that I thrifted last week, and they’re totally worth more than ten bucks. I love funky shoes, and these happen to be in three different neon colors—yellow, green, and pink. Total. Freaking. Score. Glancing down at my shoes with a smile, I continue pushing a shopping cart down the aisles of a home improvement store as I look for the things I need.
In the aisle with cleaning supplies, I pick up a new plunger as well as a toilet brush since both of mine had to get thrown out last week. And no, I didn’t have a plumbing problem because of uh…big logs. It was just time because they were ancient. Then, I amble down another aisle and get a pack of rubber gloves, tape, and some industrial glue before making my way to the garden section.
The yellow-handled ax with the big shiny head that I spot when I round the aisle is just right. I pick it up, testing the weight of it in my hands. It’s so satisfying just to touch the thing and imagine how I’m going to use it. I place it in the cart and then wheel my way to the checkout.
The guy at the checkout is somewhere around twenty, and he has a shaggy blonde head with floppy blonde hair. He kind of reminds me of Byron, so he instantly leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
He eyes the cart and then eyes me up while he’s ringing stuff in. “Looks like you’re set there if you’re going to be committing a murder.”
A freaking what? Oh right. The ax.
I roll my eyes. “Not nearly.” If this is his way of flirting with me, I can totally do without it. I’m now waiting for my boss to ambush me and ask me to fake date him, thanks to his granny. But before that, this is all thanks to Byron, his bullshit, and my freaking stupid kiss with Asher. “If I wanted to commit a murder, I’d be sure to grab more gloves, a full body paint suit, drop cloths, plastic sheeting, garbage bags, a hack saw, and oh yeah, a chain saw. Never underestimate their efficiency.” The guy laughs, but it’s slightly nervous. “Shit. I forgot the zip ties. The big, extra-strong kind. Can’t have whoever it is escaping on me now.”
“Um, that’ll be fifty-two ninety,” the guy mumbles, trying to avoid any eye contact.
Clearly, he’s done flirting. In fact, he actually looks a little scared. I know I’ve already gone too far, but I can’t help myself. “Good thing you don’t know about the jerrycan in the back of my car.” I wink as I slide my credit card through to pay. “Have a good one,” I say cheerfully as the guy hands over my receipt.
I wheel the cart out, and I don’t look back. When I get to the car, I pop the trunk, and yes, there really is a jerrycan back there. And it’s full. I stopped for it before I went to the hardware store. If the guy is watching me, he’s probably calling the cops right now.
Maybe I went too far.
I load my purchases into the trunk, and for once, I don’t return the cart. I know it’s seriously bad manners, but I feel all nervous now about the guy reading my plate number or calling the cops on me. I peel out of the parking lot with my heart hammering away, but I laugh at myself a few blocks later.
What happened to those days where the worst of my problems was losing to bots on games I have on my phone? These past couple of days have been complicated with all caps, as in COMPLICATED. And it all started with my breakup. Wait, no, that’s not true. It all started with the stupid dining table.
When I get home, I pull into the garage and shut the door before opening my trunk. I don’t want anyone to see me with a jerrycan and an ax. Yeah, now I’m the one who’s paranoid.
Storming through the house, I slide open the back patio door, and the hot June air rushes in. I set the jerrycan outside so that the smell of gas doesn’t keep twisting my stomach, and then I leave the door open because why not? My yard has a big fence all around it. No one can see me in here, in my kitchen.
The table eyes me defiantly as I lift the ax. “You’re going down, motherplucker,” I growl.
It says nothing in return, just taunting me with its nasty table of deeds. I guess it isn’t its fault, but all I can see is Byron tupping that chick here. In my freaking house. On my table. I bought it years ago, so I guess it’s not a total loss. Plus, I’m sure this is going to be therapeutic AF.