Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
His knife.
It gleams, almost sparkles as I open it up. The lights that are so happy and inviting outside almost bounce off the tip.
I promised him no more knives. But he promised me forever and now he’s said we’re over. I feel no guilt.
This time, I do stand, almost like the power of the knife has given me the energy to do what needs to be done.
“I’m done crying for you, Edge Daniels.” I pick up his jeans and fucking start stabbing them. Sitting up, I grab a T-shirt and slice it in half. One after another, I stab and slice until the sweat rolls down my neck and stomach. Grasping for the end table, I use it to help me up and reach for the light.
“How did he do this to me?” I stare at my hands. They’re beet red and swollen. I open one and close it, the ache so bad it’s almost as if I’ve been using a punching bag.
“I need alcohol.” I rub under my eyes to stop the tears from falling and turn to the large bar. Champagne sits in the silver bucket of ice.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I trip over his clothes wondering where I left his stupid knife—a knife he never uses because he prefers his fucking guns. “Just like my father,” I mumble as I make my way to the bar.
And then I start laughing. It’s official: I’m full-on going to snap.
He’s finally done it.
Or maybe I’ve finally done it. Let’s be honest—it’s the sparkling gold bottle of Cristal that did it. It sits waiting, almost calling for me to notice it.
Slowly I pick it up, turning it so that I can read the name. Louis Roederer Cristal Brut. I hold it up so that I can admire the pretty gold bottle.
“She’s so fucking stupid, I bet she doesn’t even realize she spelled her name wrong.”
Not that I know for sure that Crystal isn’t her real name, but it makes me feel better to think she’s stupid and tried to name herself after an expensive bottle of champagne but spelled it wrong.
“Because she’s biker trash!” I scream and throw the bottle at the wall. It explodes. Fizzes and shatters all over. Hundreds of tiny gold shards of glass roll toward me like an ocean of champagne. I don’t move yet watch to see if it will make its way to my red toenails. It doesn’t, though. It stops feet away, the fizzing sound my only company.
I need food, but I seem to be frozen, locked into this space. My phone vibrates, and I snap out of it. Running to the couch, I grab it out of my bag.
“Hello.”
“Congratulations! You have been one of the lucky few who has…” A fucking robocall? And I’m so crazy I answered it thinking it’s him. I hang up. Not even considering what I’m doing, I start calling him. Of course, I hear his suit jacket ringing.
Covering my mouth, I try to steady my heart. This is all a crazy misunderstanding brought on from lack of food and way too much alcohol.
I pull my knees up to my chest and rock back and forth wondering what all this means.
“I’m fucked.” I exhale. He might truly not get over this.
“He’ll come back and we’ll work it out.” My eyes fill with tears. I’m reduced to whispering to myself like an old mad witch.
I need to get help. I need to talk to him, but he left me.
My eyes are so blurry it’s hard to see as I push on Doug’s number and sniff back my runny nose enough to talk.
“Not even you can fuck up your wedding night.” Doug’s sleepy voice fills my heart and I start to cry.
“Baby Doll. Not right now. I’m not doing this with you. Whatever happened, you need to make it right with Edge.”
“But…” I stop because—is that a male voice in the background?
“Are you not alone?” I whisper. Holy shit it is. I can hear a muffled male voice saying, “Roll over.”
“Oh my God. Is that Robert?” I choke it out.
“Go to sleep,” Doug says. “You’re drunk. I’ll be by in the morning.” And then he’s gone. My Doug has hung up on me and I didn’t even get to tell him what happened.
I lie down on the silky couch and watch the door. I should get up to go to bed. But I need to be here when he comes back. He has to eventually—he needs his clothes.
I’ll simply wait and watch the door.
Something’s vibrating under my arm and it won’t stop. “Stop,” I growl, then sit up, trying to steady myself as the room spins a little.
“Shit.” I stand up and look for my phone. It was under my arm, so it has to be somewhere. I slide my hand in between the cushions, and there it is.