Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
I’m winning.
Idly, I lie here a few minutes, enjoying the silence before removing my hands from the suds, drying them off with the terry cloth towel I placed next to the tub, and pick up the paperback that’s been chilling on the toilet seat cover.
What the hell was that?
I pause with the remote control pointed at the TV.
Scratch, scratch.
I listen.
Tilt my head to hear better, hitting MUTE on the remote.
Thump.
I sit up, arranging myself into a sitting position, still in my robe after my bath because I don’t feel entirely comfortable lying around naked, and it’s cozy—like a hug I’m giving myself without all the effort.
I remain frozen on the bed as the scratching noise persists, as if something were gnawing at the wall. Or the wires in the wall? Or…
It sounds like it’s in my closet.
There is no way.
Can’t be.
I would have heard it before now, yeah?
Bethany and Jill heard it, and you made fun of them for being dramatic.
My roommates, who I may remind you, are both safely out of the house until the landlord comes with his pest control dude.
Shit.
How am I going to sleep with that critter—whatever it is—gnawing away at the drywall?
Scratch, scratch…
I hit mute on the TV to listen, this time getting up off the bed and going to the scene of the action. Pushing the shirts neatly hanging on the rack aside, I stick my arm through them and give the wall a hard thump.
“Take that, you little dickhead.”
I pause when it stops scratching, relieved.
“Be quiet.” I tell the sound. “You’re stressing me out.”
I put a hand to my chest and find my heart thumping wildly.
Then.
Just as I’m about to turn and leave the closet to walk back to the bed, I see a set of eyes.
Small, beady brown eyes stare back at me from the flannel shirts hanging on the top rack. I open my mouth to let out a bloodcurdling scream when the squirrel squeezes itself through the tiny hole it made and launches onto my dresser, knocking a perfume bottle to the floor.
“OH MY GOD!”
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
I beeline it to the door, slamming the door closed behind me, and holy shit, THERE IS A SQUIRREL TRAPPED INSIDE MY ROOM.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
What do I do?
“What do I do?” I’m shouting, arms flailing, twirling in frantic circles. “Where’s my phone, where’s my phone?!”
Frantically, with trembling hands, I find Bethany’s contact in my phone and hit CALL BETHANY, and of course it immediately goes to voicemail.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
What do I do?
I’m going to die in here at the hands of a rabid squirrel.
I dash to the kitchen and desperately search for the Post-it Note with our landlord’s cell phone number. I’m unable to locate it anywhere, so I drop my phone because my hands are shaking so bad.
“Calm down, Lizzy. The squirrel can’t get you.”
No.
It can’t get me, but it can shit all over my bedroom and tear apart everything inside of it and build a nest while the damn thing is locked in my room, and oh my god, what if he brings his friends to his little party?
There have to be more where this came from. Don’t they travel in packs?
What do I do?
Bethany hasn’t gotten my call. No doubt she’s at a bar somewhere whooping it up, carefree and shit, with bad cell service. Meanwhile, I can’t find the landlord’s phone number anywhere because my roommates have it, and my parents live too far away for my dad to help.
I worry my bottom lip.
I wish I had the window in my bedroom open because maybe the tiny brown heathen would take a hint and hit the road.
The light goes on next door.
The front door opens.
A big dude walks out and plops down on the wooden porch swing, eating something out of a white takeout container I cannot identify from here, leaving me with no option but to take myself next door and beg for his help.
Him.
He is my only hope.
I pull my robe tighter, cinching the belt securely so my cleavage isn’t showing, slide into a pair of flip-flops, and adjust the towel on my head. I keep the towel on because it’s cold outside, and also, the last thing I need is to look like total shit when I go to the house next door because I look like total shit when my hair is damp.
Whatever.
Not the point!
Taking a deep breath, I open our front door and step through it. The wind whips my robe, opening it so my lady business is showing and I almost lose the towel wrapped around my damp hair.
The guy hasn’t noticed me come outside the way I noticed him, and I hope he’s a decent dude and not an insensitive asshole with no interest in my survival.