Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“I’m afraid it is, Caroline. I spent the last twelve years in law school, and–”
I stifle a laugh. “Isn’t law school supposed to take like seven years?” Mostly, I’m just mad now. I want to sting him, even if it’s only a bee sting next to the bullet wound he just finished putting straight through my heart. Married? In six months, no less? It’s literally impossible.
Peter’s face goes red and he pulls the contract back to his side of the table, closing the folder. “There’s an official record of this document in the county registrar’s office. You're free to look if you’d like to see it for yourself. And if you’d like to waste your money, you’re welcome to hire your own legal counsel to confirm this contract is, in fact, legally binding.” He stands up, adjusts the button on his suit, and gives me a cold smile. “I look forward to taking back what’s rightly mine. If you need a recommendation for good movers, I hear there’s a budget-friendly crew in town, so long as you don’t mind them dinging and scuffing your things a bit.”
I put on my best customer service smile and quietly try to figure out if I could get away with murdering Peter and stuffing him in the cellar.
He matches my smile with pure slime, nods, and walks out of the building.
I flop back down into my chair. For once, I wonder if I might have finally found myself in a mess I can’t find my way out of. Because how the hell would I get a husband in six months? I’ve kind of been trying to find one for most of my adult life and haven’t managed it.
I rest my face in my hands and rack my brain for ideas, but nothing comes.
2
JAKE
ONE WEEK EARLIER
I’m in a group jail cell, and I honestly can’t remember what I did to wind up here. The last few hours are a fuzzy blur. I rub my eyes, get up from the bed I was apparently napping in, and take a look around.
There are half a dozen or so guys in with me. A few look like the typical drunk tank types. Torn, dirty clothes, and signs of bar fights on their knuckles and faces. A guy in a ragged suit looking disheveled.
I stand up, look down, and realize I’m not wearing a shirt. Why am I not wearing a shirt?
“Oh, come on,” a guy wearing a backward ball cap says. “Mr. Greek God is gonna stroll around now and make us all feel bad about ourselves? Did they plant you here as part of the punishment?” He clutches his gut through the dirty white tank he’s wearing and gives it a little shake for emphasis.
There’s apparently a separate cell for women across from ours. I hear an appreciative whistle, and then a few less-than-savory-looking women start catcalling me.
Wonderful.
I flinch when cold fingers touch the side of my stomach. The baseball cap guy is squeezing my skin and leaning in, brows furrowed. “Bro, really? I swear you just made up some fuckin’ muscles, didn’t you? What does that one even do?”
I give him the glare I usually save for rookies who are slacking off on the ice.
He lifts his palms and takes a few steps back. “Alright, alright. Don’t smite me, Thor. I was just curious.”
I walk up to the edge of the cell, hoping to catch sight of an officer. I want to ask what the hell I did to land myself in here. I know it involved alcohol, but that’s about as far as I’ve got it figured.
“Wait,” another guy says. “That’s Jake fucking Summers, dude. Vandals team captain.”
“No shit?” a balding man says. He digs around in the pockets of his jeans and produces a black marker. “Can you sign me? I don’t watch hockey, but I won’t say I didn’t get myself signed by a celebrity. Hell no.”
“Hold up,” the guy with the baseball cap says. “They emptied my pockets before I came in here. Where were you keeping that marker, bro?”
“My pocket…” he says. He looks down at the pen, then lifts it higher with a shrug. “If you don’t believe me, you can sniff it.”
“I’ll pass,” I say.
“I got this, Jake,” says the baseball cap guy. He goes over, pulls a serious face as he leans down, and sniffs deeply. He pauses, then gives me a nod. “It’s good. We’re good,” he announces more loudly to the rest of the room. “I’ve smelled an anus marker before. Can’t miss that stench.”
A man with a bulging gut, wild eyes, and a scraggly beard nods. “The forbidden felt tip, fiendishly ferried in the forbidden forest. It’s a stench one does not forget.”
I want to roll my eyes at the bizarre scene but decide not to be a dick. For all my life, I’ve seen the same pattern play out. People fall over themselves, trying to follow me. I never ask for it or completely understand it. All I know is people see me and expect me to lead them somewhere. Usually, the burden isn’t so hard to bear. But lately, it feels different.