Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
“Oh, hello, is that Tristan?”
“Yes. Speaking.”
“Hello, it’s Steven from Aston Martin calling.”
“Is my car ready to pick up?”
“No, unfortunately not. We’ve only just been able to discover what’s wrong with it. It’s had us baffled all week.”
“Oh.” I sigh. “Okay, what is it?”
“Um.” He pauses. “I don’t know how to put this.”
I frown.
“Someone has put sugar in the gas tank.”
“What?”
“Someone who had access to your key has put a shit ton of sugar in your tank. It seized the motor.”
I screw up my face. “Are you kidding me? Who would . . .” My voice trails off.
The wizard.
“Okay,” I snap. “That’s fine. Just fix it, and let me know when it’s ready.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Anger boils my blood, and I run my fingers through my hair. My scalp burns.
Oww. I pull my hand down and see it’s full of hair. My eyes widen.
What the fuck?
I grab my hair, and it comes out in chunks. “I’ve got to go,” I stammer.
“Okay, sir, so—”
I hang up on him and run to get back under the shower. My scalp is burning to fuck, and my hair feels like jelly as I try to rinse it out.
I think back to the words Harry said to me when I last saw him. “Tick. Tock.” My eyes widen in horror. That evil wizard has put hair-removal cream in my conditioner . . . and fucked up my car.
I wash my hair like a madman. I’m going to be bald. My anger erupts like never before.
“Tick. Fucking. Tock. Prepare to die, motherfucker.”
Chapter 15
For half an hour, I stand under the water. I get out briefly and google How to stop hair-removal cream from working?
Water and shampoo remove hair-removal cream.
I go to use my shampoo, and then I eye the bottle suspiciously. Fuck that. I reach out and throw that bottle into the trash as well. Who knows what that shit of a kid has done to anything? I use the hotel’s cheap and nasty shampoo.
I rinse my hair for another twenty minutes, and then I get out and look in the mirror. My hair feels like fairy floss—some places worse than others . . . but all in all, it’s fucked.
I dial Jameson’s number.
“Hey,” he answers.
“Meet me out front of the building in ten minutes.”
“I can’t.”
“Jameson,” I whisper through gritted teeth. “Meet me, or else prepare to bail me out of prison tonight for killing a minor.”
“What?”
“That kid.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, unable to believe it. “He put sugar in the gas tank of my Aston Martin.”
“What?”
“Oh, it gets better. He also put hair-removal cream in my fucking conditioner bottle.”
“He did not.”
“Jameson,” I whisper angrily. “My hair looks like singed pubes, so you either take me to a fucking bar, or that’s it . . . I’m going crazy.” My eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. “And I won’t be held responsible for my actions,” I snap.
He bursts out laughing. “Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Deadly.”
“Jesus Christ, Tris. Who is this fucking kid?”
“Someone on my hit list. See you in ten.” I hang up and look in the mirror at my fuzzy hair. I try to part it and push it to the side, but it’s all fuzzy and sticking up on end.
I make a fist at the mirror. “When I get ahold of you, kid . . .” I storm out and grab my bag. I take out my toiletry bag and throw the entire thing in the trash.
Who knows what that fucker has done?
I sip my beer and glare at my infuriating brother across the bar table.
Every time he looks at me, he bursts out laughing. He’s been doing this for half an hour.
I shake my head in disgust. “If I could run my fingers through my hair in dismay, I would. But I can’t . . . because it will fucking fall out.” I sigh deeply. “This is not going to work for me. My hair is an asset,” I splutter. “How will I walk around like this?” I widen my eyes as a vision comes through. “How will I face people in meetings?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Hi, I’m here to take over your company. Don’t mind me. I got fucked up by a thirteen-year-old.”
Jameson puts his head into his hands and laughs hard. His shoulders and back are racked with giggles.
I sip my beer, unimpressed. “Go ahead; laugh all you want,” I mutter dryly. “This is fucking hilarious.”
“It actually is,” he says with a laugh. “I would say hysterical.”
I glare at him, and when he finally stops laughing and comes back to earth, he says, “In all seriousness, what are you going to do?”
“Well, I want to go over there and rip him a new asshole.”
He laughs again.
“But I won’t, because Claire will kick me out.”
“And that’s a problem?”