Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“It’s nothing. I’m glad I got you a pick-me-up this morning. Maybe I’ll have a shot one day.” Deon backs away with a smile.
Internalizing his words, I feel my shoulders slump. Again, Mom’s supplications are in the back of my head. My dearest Lux, I wish you adventure on this journey we call life. Victor’s nothing short of a jaw-dropping escapade. Could my entire life revolve around adventure?
Could I really have a shot with Dr. Victor Finch?
I’ll take long-distance with Victor over caffeine and another man’s arms any day.
“Oh, Vic, you’re an experience like none other. A gamble . . .”
Then again, Mom said, Listen to your heart and weigh out risks. Of all the advice I treasure from Momma, I never pondered this one.
Heart and Mind.
Those two morsels are so noncomplementary the bit of insight doesn’t even make sense.
“Momma, that’s the lousiest advice you ever gave me,” I say to myself while trailing back into the building. The heart knows not the worries of risk. The brain knows not the depths of the heart.
Aliyah called about thirty minutes into her shift, sounding like she gargled with jagged rocks. Now, I’m stuck without a sounding board on a slow morning. Leaning against the glass counter, I aimlessly scroll social media when the pit of my stomach bottoms out.
“Arnold. Oh, my God.” I gulp down a bite of the rose-shaped chocolate I’d been nibbling on. I once blamed Momma for my sweet tooth. After she died, I gave myself another pass, rationalizing my indulgence to grief for eating a friggen donut. I click on the profile page created in remembrance of him.
He was a little older than me but damn. “Was he sick? How did he die?” I hardly hear the door chime as I search through condolences and scripture. Should I call his parents? They always treated me with the utmost—
An intense presence causes my eyes to snap up.
Instead of hypnotic blue eyes threatening to possess me to the point of insanity, I peer at a giant. Short, cropped hair almost grazes the popcorn ceiling.
Okay, hillbillies need flowers too. Lux, serve the man.
"Morning, what occasion brings you here?" I attempt a smile, stomach lurching as I glimpse a raised welt halfway across the left side of his neck.
"Krasivaya." The stranger’s baritone scares me witless.
I stutter, “Kras- kras . . .”
He snarls, “Russian, beautiful.”
Lawd, I like my Russians in fictitious situations. No more Russian Bratva romance for me.
The guy leans over onto the glass counter, and more scars from his thick knuckles become apparent. "You have gorgeous eyes, wow.”
He might as well add, “The better to see you with,” like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. With every blink, I’m immersed in red. My heart slaughters my ribcage.
"Thank you." My voice refuses to rise above a whisper. I instinctively take two steps back. At the sound of approaching footsteps, the Russian and I look toward the entrance. Through the crowd of flowers and potted plants, my shopping center neighbor continues without coming inside.
"That is good. It’s you and me." The man’s attention is entirely on me.
“Take the money from the register, asshole!” I snap, flinging my arms out.
For a beat, he’s content petting the top of a pink, curly-haired teddy bear. The teddy gets tossed over his shoulder. "Nyet, I’d rather have your eyes."
The hair on the back of my neck rises, and goose bumps dot my arms. No, this is not happening to me.
This.
Can’t.
Happen.
Not now!
As I feel the wave of an anxiety attack trying to pull me under, I take a deep breath. Lexie from Harlem takes over. "So, you like my eyes? Get outta here before I pump your ass full of buckshot!" I shout at him and step toward the register, indicating I’ve got a weapon. The man's hands lean on the glass between us.
Thump. Thump. Thump. His sausage fingertips tap the counter, and my heart mimics the hasty rhythm. “Buckshot, heh.”
The Russian rises to intimidating heights again.
My heart drops, flopping around the pit of my stomach. Suddenly, I imagine Deon’s voice. In a blink, he shifts past the shrubbery cluttering the entrance, saying, “Luxury, I don’t give a damn that you’re seeing someone. . .”
The second he sets eyes on me, my hands pop up like this is a stickup.
"What the fuck, man!” Deon reaches for a gun from the back of his jeans. "Step the fuck away from—”
Instead of heeding the warning, the Russian strikes like a cobra. His hand zips over the glass partition, and I’m stumbling back a second too late. Throat clutched; he hauls me over. My knees scrape over the edge of the counter. The Russian yanks me to his chest like a human shield.
With my esophagus crushed, I’m totally at the Russian’s mercy.
He runs his abrasive jaw against my cheek. "I'll squeeze her head from her neck in one quick pop! Like a grape."