Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Seatbelt.
Eye-rolling at the little voice inside me is instant.
Yeah, traffic safety is at the very bottom of my give a fucks list right now.
Our angle in the air suddenly begins to shift and the change causes my mother’s bound body to begin to slide around.
Oh shit!
That’s what it meant by seatbelt!
Yeah.
Scrambling to secure the colossal-sized parent I have so many questions for, turns me into the comical spectacle I was just judging the previous assailant for being. It takes contorted shouldering and putting my face in places I hope she forgives me for later to get her properly strapped in. I repeatedly cringe in worry that the belts won’t be able to hold her during the last of our combat fueled turbulence—for the record in a battle of helicopter versus dragon, dragon wins—yet once we’ve evened out, the fear dissipates allowing me to brace myself underneath the nearby window on a relieved sigh.
Fuck me, is it five o’clock, yet?
I could really use a glass of red wine and a rare steak.
Cameron
I’m not entirely sure how long we flew.
And that uncertainty has me divided.
Again.
Decisiveness may be something I have in literal spades when it comes to work but in my personal life, I’ve practically always been at war with myself.
Half of me is logical and rational and understands how you must analyze information to make the best decision while the other half…the other half couldn’t care less about caution or reason or anything that isn’t the gut feeling inside.
That’s the portion that loved every minute we were in the air and loathes that we’re already being gingerly placed down beside a row of other vehicles, although they—unlike the one I’m in—are completely unscathed. I’m slightly reluctant to get out but not because I’m at some new, unknown estate or because the man—er creature—who flew me here is still in his dragon form or because I’m afraid of the ghost person in a fancy butler suit anxiously hovering around.
No.
It’s due to the couple who were fighting earlier in the dungeon fighting now.
And louder.
So much louder.
“We are not naming our child after some fashion designer!” Ana defiantly announces, head thrown back in obvious irritation. “I will not be giving birth to a Calvin or a McQueen or a Beckett!”
“What about a Coco or a Stella?”
“No.”
“Donatella or maybe Dontello?”
“No Ninja Turtles, either!”
“Fine, but I don’t think naming our child Edward after Edward Scissorhands, one of the only non-serial killer movies you like, is a good idea, either!”
“Me being pregnant already is not a good idea!”
“Yelling is most certainly not in the best interest of the offspring you are growing, Lady Draak,” the floating creature with the green tornado swirling lower half politely comments.
Ana chooses to acknowledge me as opposed to him. “Oh, I know that fucking expression.”
Not realizing I’m making one has me lifting my eyebrows at the same time I step away from the vehicle.
“You just saw his dragon for the first time.”
“I did.”
“And you actually liked it.”
A mixture of guilt and curiosity collided in my expression. “How’d you know?”
“The lack of a horror movie face,” she replies while whirling a finger around. “You aren’t scared? Not even…a tiny bit?”
Tossing my stare to where the platinum scaled beast seems to be shifting back into a man form, I thoughtlessly confess, “More impressed than scared.” An intriguing transformation begins with swirling, shimmering lines of platinum circling and engulfing the creature’s massive frame turning him back into a suit-wearing human. “He’s just so fucking huge.”
My word choice seems to cherry his complexion, something his brother playfully pokes at. “See, Tiny Toes. We love to be called huge in both forms.”
The three of us open laugh at the juvenile joke while Ptur and the other being—who looks a lot like the guy that played Peacemaker in the Suicide Squad movies—begin a dialog initiated by the one hovering above the ground. “Thank you, Master Draak, for a new project to occupy my time.” His hands fold politely behind his back before tipping his head towards the damaged vehicle. “I welcome the opportunity to redirect my attention to something other than listening to the…bonding spats that have increased in volume as well as in frequency this late afternoon.”
“Bonding spats?” I instantly inquire. “Is that different than marital spats or are you doing your best to be… ‘PC’ in front of company?”
“I’m sorry I do not understand.” His head tilts to one side in question. “PC?”
“Politically correct.”
“It’s a Sleeper term,” A.D. casually announces.
“Oh.” He adjusts his tie. “Well, perhaps it will please you to know that I do not allow myself to get involved with such topics, Lady…” the individual in front of me motions a hand to indicate where my name should go.
“Pennington.” Extending my open palm towards him is done with a warm grin. “Cameron Pennington or Cami for short.”