First Comes Revenge Read Online Penelope Bloom

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary Tags Authors: Penelope Bloom Advertisement

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Just the memory makes me shudder.

But operation “shoot myself in the foot” has so far gotten me the same amount of results as operation “wow her with thoughtful gifts.”

I’m at my place in the early hours of the morning trying to decide what I can do differently. I decide it’s time to call for advice, so I ring up my sisters and ask them to stop by. I’m expecting Kate to say she’s too busy, but both Cleo and Kate are at my apartment within thirty minutes.

“Okay,” Kate says once I’ve fully updated her on my progress. “So you’re not doing terrible. I mean, you kind of are, but you’re at least suffering.”

“Suffering is good?” I ask.

Cleo taps her chin, thinking. “If your suffering is proving to her that you are sorry and you’ve changed, I think it could be good. The flower thing is honestly kind of hilarious. That would melt my heart. You did at least tell her what you thought gray flowers symbolized, right?”

“No? I am trying not to bother her. While sort of bothering her,” I add. “I want her to know I’m ready to talk when she is, I mean.”

“I’m pretty sure she has figured that one out, genius,” Kate laughs. “The self-revenge is a good angle. I like that. What else did you guys do to Vaughn? Could you take it farther? Maybe she feels like you’re holding back on punishing yourself?”

“Um,” I say. “I made him look at his ex-girlfriend while she was on my arm in a sexy, slutty Halloween costume. Charli also made him get a lap dance from a bunch of male strippers in front of the whole…” I trail off, shaking my head already. “No. Don’t say it.”

But Kate and Cleo are both sharing a look and a huge smile.

“I will put that on the ‘break in case of emergency’ list. But I have one more idea before it gets to that.”

I have decided my mistake was not being thoughtful enough with my gifts. Flowers, chocolate, and lasagna would be the key to my heart, but I need to think about what matters to Charli. She’s an author, for starters. I also remembered the giant, heavy bag she was lugging around at the convention full of signed books.

Clearly she likes collecting signed books from authors. In other words, I have the perfect opportunity to do something thoughtful and generous.

I work with authors every day and have access to all kinds of rare signed books. I can call up a few dozen authors and demand they send me a signed copy, for God’s sake.

So that’s exactly what I did. I also snuck into Nolan’s office and a few of our higher-ups to borrow any signed books they were hoarding. Okay, borrowing might not strictly be the correct term, considering I’m planning to give these to Charli, but it’s for a good cause. They’ll live.

I’m more nervous today than I’ve been at any point until now. Even the occasional phone sex call or delivery of dirty underwear is hardly fazing me at this point. I’m nervous because this feels a little like my last idea–like my last chance.

If the signed books and my “break in case of emergency” final plan don’t work, then what? Am I actually supposed to give up? Just walk away and pretend I’m not going to spend the rest of my fucking life missing her?

At first, I figured it would get easier to be without her over time. I thought the memories of her would fade with time–growing worn at the edges and distant.

Instead, it has only gotten worse. I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t stop tossing and turning at night wishing I hadn’t fucked things up–wishing she was lying right there beside me. I torture myself with thoughts of what I’d trade for a single smile from her.

I’m no stranger to standing outside her building by this point. I’ve even made a few acquaintances. There’s jogging guy who likes very short shorts. Once, I was almost positive I saw his junk come flopping out in the open. That’s one way to make sure every part of you can breathe, I guess.

There’s the angry eater guy. He always has some kind of handheld food and he’s tearing into it like it just spit on his cat. There’s the old lady who pretends to need a walker until she leaves the building down the street. She goes in hobbling with the walker and comes out spry as a spring chicken. My theory is she’s in there doing hard drugs that make her forget she’s crippled. I’m also aware it’s a very bad theory.

I’m pacing in my usual circle with the huge bag of books and a small pile of dirty underwear at my feet.

I bag up the underwear when the day is over and take it to a dry cleaner’s to be blasted with industrial-grade cleaners. After some serious sanitation, they come out clean enough to be donated to shelters. I’m not some sappy bleeding heart, mind you, I just couldn’t think of what else to do with all the underwear I’ve been accumulating. It felt like an insult to trash cans to just throw it away, too.

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