Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“I’m not lying—”
The wind gusts over both of us, tugging at my T-shirt and rippling her nightgown.
That’s it. We’re going back into the house right this second.
I go first without announcing it. I just turn and head directly for the window. I plan on getting there first and offering her my hand, and I’m not going to take no for an answer. This is crazy. We can see the damn moon without sitting out here on the shingles.
My fingers are nearly on the windowsill when my foot flies out from under me on a curled piece of shingle that doesn’t have as much grip as it should.
I haven’t been on a slide since I was a kid, but this is pretty much the adult version, with all the usual horror attached. At least, as a kid, I just worried about going down too fast and knocking myself unconscious. As my face grates against the shingles like they’re cheese graters—and shit, there’s enough traction there—I get a one-way ticket to my life flashing before my eyes.
Though it sounds more like a suspended scream above me.
Ignacia.
I might be going to die, but she’s the one who is going to have to see the splatter.
Fuck.
I rapidly get my hands to cooperate. My nails dig frantically, looking for a handhold. It’s funny how such a short drop seems to take forever when you’re going to die.
You’re not going to die. You know how to fall. You’ve been trained for worse.
My brain finally kicks into survival mode, giving me enough adrenaline that my reflexes wrench into overdrive. I can’t die before I finish this job. I can’t die before I tell her the truth. She’s going to find out after the fact and hate me, and dead Beau can’t defend himself. I shouldn’t want to defend myself, but I do. I don’t want her to hate me. Ever. And coming back as a ghost isn’t appealing. The first time around as a living being was rough enough, thanks.
My hand shoots out as I go airborne, and my fingers grasp the edge of the roof. There aren’t any eaves. Fuck. If there was just that lip, it might have saved me, stopped my fall, or slowed me down enough to get to the ground without breaking my skull.
Yeah, no.
I hit the air, twist as much as I can, and hit the ground on my feet. My legs crumple beneath me, taking the impact, but it’s okay. That crunch is all good. I can live with a broken leg, but I can’t live with a bashed-in face. Or rather, I don’t want to.
For however long the fall seemed to take, the ground came fast. Before I know it, I’m on my side and heaving into the grass, which is in my mouth. There is dirt and grass between my teeth, and it tastes like copper. Wait, no. That would be my own blood. My cheeks feel wet. Shit.
I lift a hand that feels completely numb, like it’s detached from my body, and feel. Yes, it’s wet. Am I crying? That would be a damn first. My fingertips come away red, and then I feel the burn. The nasty scrape from the shingles. Road rasp. Or rather, roof rash. Whatever. It did a number on me. The wetness isn’t tears. It’s blood. And the good news? My hand seems to be attached to my body, even though I can’t feel it.
“Beau!” Ignacia screams.
I crane my head and see her up there on the roof, frozen, terrified, horrified, motionless, and colorless. Anger surges in me again—anger from seeing her hurting or threatened. This time, I’m only mad at myself. I want to scream at her to be careful, but she tucks herself through the window, and the words die in my throat. I’m not sure I can make a sound anyway. Breathing is hard enough. If I didn’t bust a rib, I’d be lucky. I feel like a hot death. Winded or wrecked? I can’t tell which one I am.
“Beau! Oh my fucking god. No, please. No, no!” A granny-nightgown-clad angel who swears comes rushing out the door, her blonde hair streaming behind her. Then, she drops down on her knees in front of me, her fingertips brushing against my cheek. She’s not scared to touch me, but she knows she shouldn’t move me. Her hands hover by my head anyway. “Beau! Oh my god. I need to call an ambulance.”
“I’m alive,” I rasp. Ooh, words. Yay! Thank god, because I am not going to the hospital. “Unfortunately for you, the contract still stands.” It’s probably not wise to use my breath to goad her and be a jerk, but alas…
“Shut up about the stupid contract.” There’s no heat in that statement. She’s still so white, so frightened. I’m scaring her, and it makes me want to throttle my own stupid self right now. “Is anything broken?” She still doesn’t really touch me, but she leans over me, and wetness splatters my face. Her tears. She’s crying all over me.