Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 61332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“Mother of fuck!” I holler, but I refuse, fucking refuse, to drop my treasure. With God as my witness, this dumpster baby is making it to my cactus corner if it’s the last fucking thing I do on this earth!
“Ma’am? Are you all right?” the deep voice asks, but the humor that was there only moments ago is now gone.
“Jesus H. Jefferson Christ! Ow, ow, ow, ow! I… I can’t move or I’ll—”
The voice comes from above me now, instead of right on the other side of the metal wall. “Ma’am, drop the cactus and reach up so I can help you out of there.”
Something in the man’s tone makes me tilt my hand to do just as he ordered before I realize what I’m about to let go of, and I right my palm currently holding the desert plant like some fucked-up bowling ball. But instead of my fingers being sunk into holes to keep a grip, this spiky fucker sank its needles into my flesh to keep a hold of me.
“Not happening,” I try to say firmly, but it comes out more like a whimper.
I hear a growl that somehow gets past all the pain I currently feel and awakens my lady garden like I’m not at the bottom of a dumpster at the moment, and I glance up to try to see the man leaning over the top and looking down at me. But because he’s backlit by the streetlights, I can’t make out a single one of his features. I can, however, tell he’s wearing a baseball cap, and his shoulders are… wide. Jesus are they wide. Either he’s a big ole boy who has a beer gut the size of Texas, or he has one hell of a six-pack. Nothing else could accompany shoulders that look like those.
It doesn’t take long to figure out he does not have the former, because no one with a belly that would match those boulder shoulders could move the way this guy does. One second, he’s peering down at me from above; the next, he does some crazy ninja move that reminds me of those guys who can do the trick pull-ups. Not regular pull-ups, but the ones where they go way above the bar and then seemingly levitate as they switch from one side to the other and even “walk” their legs up straight out behind them and just… stay there. Yeah, one of those guys.
And then he lands like a freaking cat, right on his feet and crouched to the left of me, perfectly centered on a piece of plywood a couple of feet higher than where I’ve landed on my ass on something hard but thankfully flat. My best guess is a piece of countertop, or maybe a wide paver. Definitely stone, according to my crying Sitz bones.
There’s just enough illumination to make out his orange apron and a teensy glimpse of light—either platinum-blond or silvery-white—facial hair before he rights his face mask, looping the one side that came loose back over his ear just beneath the dark backward baseball cap.
An ear that has three tiny silver hoops in the lobe, making me instantly think of a hot pirate.
I can’t tell a thing about him other than that, because he’s quite literally covered from head to toe. Not a bit of his skin is showing besides the space between the adjustable strap of his hat and the top of the black mask, and a tiny sliver between the bottom of the mask and the crewneck of his black long-sleeved tee. Even his hands are covered in brown leather work gloves.
In my stupor, I almost ask him why he’s wearing a face mask if he’s outside, but then I remember where we are and figure it must be because he didn’t want to smell whatever could’ve been decomposing inside the dumpster. Smart man. I’m pretty sure someone drove by and tossed their food-related garbage, because that scent wouldn’t be coming from anything sold inside the store.
“Drop the cactus and give me your hand,” he orders again, even more sternly this time, holding his leather-covered one out toward me. And even though I get that same urge to do exactly what he said, I grit my teeth and shake my head. I see his head drop and hear his sigh of annoyance before he asks, “Is this really the hill you’re choosing to die on, sweetheart?”
The endearment along with the calmness of his tone instead of hearing anger in his voice and words makes my goddamn vagina clench.
Ignoring the weirdo betwixt my thighs, I give him a firm nod. “Yes, sir,” I reply, because if he’s being kind enough to not only rescue me out of this situation—even though he’s the reason I’m in this position in the first place—but also being nice about it instead of a total dick, then I can most certainly show him respect. Especially when he looks upward… at the sky, the light, or maybe to the heavens to give him the patience to deal with my ass—he wouldn’t be the first and definitely won’t be the last—and the lighting catches just right to where I can see the facial hair along the bottom edge of the mask is silvery-white and not platinum-blond. Meaning he’s most likely much older than me, and I was taught to always respect my elders.