Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79726 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79726 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Oh, and did I tell you? The cherry on top of that shit Sunday? I worked at his company doing everything from books to marketing and advertising and even dropped out of college to help before getting more and more drawn in. But on paper, I’d only ever be an Administrative Assistant. And with all the names I called him upon finding I’d been replaced with a skinnier, younger New Bitch, I knew there was no way I’d get a reference letter, so yeah.
Here I am.
Twenty-eight. Unemployed. No degree. Living with my mom because I’d been stupid enough to let some asshole use me up and toss me out.
No, I do not want to tell the handsome new guy who’s swooped in and carried me away about my shitty past.
I take another swallow, whining when the last of the liquid runs into my mouth and there isn’t anymore. I shake the bottle over my gaping mouth, only to elicit a few more drops. Then I roll over on the bed.
I’m doing such a bang-up job of not repeating history.
A handsome, obvious wreck of a guy shows up asking for volunteers to be swept up, and what bitch is all, I volunteer as tribute! Ding ding ding, ladies and gentlemen. Me.
I’m pretty sure my therapist would say something annoying and wise like, Well, if you start to notice a pattern in your behavior, maybe that’s something worth paying attention to.
Can I help it if I’m attracted to assholes?
I grab a pillow and yank it over my face, screaming into it.
Sometimes, we’re attracted to the most familiar dynamics. Again, my therapist’s voice. I drag the pillow away from my face.
Oh dear God, please tell me I have not run away from one narcissist only to head straight into the arms of another.
I sit up and feel the wine slosh in my stomach. I let out a long, unladylike burp and giggle. Damn, that’s some good wine. I feel very, very buzzy. Which is a cute word for drunk off my ass.
Usually, at this point in my few and far between, give-into-despair-and-drink-a-bunch-of-wine moments, I’d turn on a sappy Netflix rom-com about some lonely lady buying an inn somewhere or moving back to her hometown only to find some handsome carpenter waiting to woo her.
I look around the bedroom. Yeah, it’s nice with all the lush carpets and nice furniture, but my millennial brain is freaking out for the lack of screens around here. Or at least a good, trashy romance novel. But I usually only read those on my phone.
I stand up and only wobble a little before falling back on my ass. At least the mattress is a soft landing. The second time, I totally manage to stay on my feet, even if I have to hold onto the wall to steady myself.
I’m bored. And hungry. What kind of asshole brings you to his castle and doesn’t even show you where the kitchen is? Yeah, yeah, fly off to Paris and get you some Michelin-starred dinner from the fanciest and oldest restaurant in the city, blah, blah, blah. How about you show a bitch the kitchen so she can get her own midnight snack? Should be the number one hospitality rule; everybody knows that.
I get to the door and head down the hallway, both arms out so I have a hand on each wall to steady myself. Luckily, little lights turn on in my presence to light my way. Thank fuck, cause I woulda made it like three feet in the dark before giving up, and I really could do with some bread or something to soak up the wine in my stomach.
But then I get to the stairs and remember how stupid-far up in the air we are.
I slump against one of the walls and let out a long-suffering groan.
“Whyyyyyy?” Half of me wants to sit down and go down the stairs on my butt like I did when I was a kid. But I realize it might take a while if I go down the whole way like that.
At least I’m not at the top of the turret like earlier. And it turns out that keeping a death grip on the stone walls and carefully stepping sideways works because I make it down each level. And then I have to explore because, hello, no one showed me where the damn kitchen was.
Logic tells me it’ll be on the main floor or one below. Cause like, Upstairs, Downstairs, right? Does a place like this have staff? As I head down the stairs into the cooler basement, I get shivers, wondering who might be in service to a god with two faces.
But when the lights flick on as I step through the door, my heart rate slows down. It’s just a regular-looking kitchen.