Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
I can’t be flashing my claws or cursing.
I can’t be flashing my claws or cursing.
I can’t be flashing my claws or cursing.
‘What’s that mutt doing here?’ I spit quietly, not feeling too bad for failing in my endeavour. At least I whispered.
Becker frowns and glances over his shoulder, right as Alexa makes it to us. The air around me is electric with nutty female hormones. Alexa is giving me daggers. ‘Becker,’ she purrs, presenting him with her cheek for him to kiss, while keeping her eyes on me.
‘Alexa.’ He feeds her open need to rile me, placing his lips delicately on her cheek. I immediately want to bleach his mouth. I huff and look away, knowing I’ve failed in my delayed attempt to appear untouched by her tactics. She thinks she’s superior to me. She probably is – all precious gems, fur coats, and designer make-up. The fact that everything under it all is fake lessens my resentment a smidgen. What is she doing here – a place that requires endorsements to even be considered for admittance?
‘Are we still on for tonight?’ I know Alexa’s looking at me, and though I have no right to silently demand it, I’m begging every god that’s ever existed that Becker bums her off.
I can feel her eyes boring into me. I despise the thought of Becker with her. It makes me feel sick to my stomach.
I don’t wait around to hear Becker reply. Instead, I wander further into the room before I lose control of my mouth, making myself focus on the paintings gracing the walls. I home in on a Dalí, smiling at the oil painting of a woman’s back. It’s one of the artist’s less controversial creations, and also one of my favourites. Woman at the Window in Figueres. It still fascinates me how he got away with such erotic edges to his paintings at a time when talking about sex in public was pretty much taboo. And even though this picture is a little tamer than his other works, there’s still evidence of Dalí’s sexy imagination. Her bottom, for starters. Protruding and curvaceous, it’s what most people see first when they study the image. And her skirt. It’s see-through.
‘So you brought the skivvy along,’ Alexa says, loud enough for me to hear.
My attempt to distract myself from them talking nearby is dashed right there. I could have the Mona-fucking-Lisa in my grasp, and I still couldn’t ignore her. I swing around, incensed. I couldn’t give a toss where I am. How the fuck dare she? She’s concealing a conniving grin, and Becker is watching me with caution. He should be. I’m about to rip that fur coat from her body and stuff it down her throat. Holy shit, where has this rage come from? I start marching forwards, but I only make it two steps before Becker intercepts me and steers me away,
I know it’s for the best, but that doesn’t curb my rage. He gives me a look to suggest I should zip it. But I can’t. ‘If I ever see her face at The Haven again, I’m quitting.’
‘Okay.’ He shrugs my scathing promise off with ease. ‘We already agreed no pieces of arse at The Haven during working hours.’
I recoil. ‘Oh.’ Pieces of arse? Why do I feel so comforted by his referral? Does he see me as a piece of arse? Lord knows, I have enough of an arse, and Becker seems to like it.
‘Is that all?’
I narrow my eyes on him. ‘Are you hooking up with her tonight?’ I have no right to that information, and that I’ve asked makes me look as jealous as I feel.
‘Tonight isn’t during working hours,’ he says quietly, watching me closely for my reaction. I don’t disappoint. My breath stutters, his reply stinging so much I’m probably wincing. ‘But that’s okay, right?’ he goes on, his eyes laser beams on me. ‘Because we’re done.’
‘Where to?’ I ask, forcing an even tone while swallowing down my unreasonable hurt. Yes, we’re done.
He regards me with probing eyes as he gestures towards a row of chairs. I ignore that look, following his outstretched arm and scooting down the aisle. Sitting down on the final seat, I look up to find Becker standing at the end of the aisle watching me. Eventually, he takes a chair three rows behind, in the very back row.
He gets comfy and pulls a brochure from the back pocket of the seat in front, then starts flicking casually through the pages. I return my attention to the rostrum, wondering if I should join him. He directed me to this row. Then took a different one. I can’t sit with him?
I mull over the things I recall Mrs Potts and Mr H saying earlier today – the working alone, the concentrating, the never having company. My decision to remain where I am comes quickly, assisted by our moment back then. We’re done . . . right?