Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 59022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
“We all know you’re not marrying a man for his money,” Grace smiles. “That experiment was one I don’t think any of us will ever forget.”
I clink glasses with Grace. “Amen to that!’
Before I can ask for a refill, the captain of our expedition calls out to the group. “Well look at that! A holiday miracle! So rare during this season. It looks like we have another buggy joining us.” Yeah, because most people are home by a cozy fire or decorating a Christmas tree not rubbing shoulders with the wealthy, sipping champagne, and playing chicken with mother nature.
We all stare out the windows into the endless white snow. Sure enough, a buggy twice the size of ours is rolling up right next to us. I must admit, I’m impressed at the bougie looking thing. Huh, I had no idea Bugatti was into ATV making.
“Is that what rich people call a mega buggy?” I ask Devon in a hushed whisper.
He frowns. Is he upset that someone else’s is bigger? He tilts his head and starts to immediately size it up from the slight frown to the slight grind of his teeth. Amazing, no matter how much money they have—all men are the same.
Who has the biggest dick will forever be a man’s quest for the holy grail.
He tosses back all his champagne and finally just mutters. “Things might get interesting, sure the poor bastard that owns that thing is trying to make up for more than inches.”
The rest of the guys laugh.
And I have to wonder what sort of person would roll up alongside us in something that looks like it belongs at NASA.
CHAPTER TWO
Ten minutes later two occupants from the mega buggy start to make their way through what can only be called the snowstorm from hell. It literally came from nowhere with a frightening force and winds that rock our buggy good.
I’m serious.
One minute, right before the mega buggy arrived, it was a frozen but with a clear as day sky… and now, there’s a full-on blizzard.
Like one snowflake screwed another snowflake that had accidently fallen into toxic waste creating a super storm for the ages.
I’m not scared.
But I’m scared.
Every time something creaks in the buggy, I’m ready to pour more champagne or plaster myself against the wall to hold it up or give it my aid by using body heat to make sure the glue and nuts and bolts or whatever’s holding it together stay that way. More and more noises creak around us as the storm seems to pick up speed like something’s feeding it steroids. Seriously, what the hell!?
I huddle closer to Grace. “Is this the part in the movie where all the rich people get stuck outside in the storm and we run out of food and have to eat each other?” I ask as I stare out on the ominous sky.
“You’re hilarious,” she replies, but I can see the worry in her eyes, and I know her forced bored tone. She’s trying to be aloof for my sake. It’s not working.
“Am I?” I respond in annoyance. “I kind of don’t think it’s funny since I’m the poorest one here and I’ll be the one who’s eaten first.”
“I’ll protect you,” she says like she means it basically confirming that just like virgins in horror movies—poor people die first in the Arctic. “And besides, you’re too thin— we’ll need girth and real fatty meat to survive.”
“That sounds like you’re actually thinking about it,” I narrow my eyes.
She bursts out in laughter. “I’m just being funny and complimenting you in one breath.”
“Fine,” I reply, but now I feel like I’m gonna have to side eye the other occupants and identify the weakest link (beside me).
She’s not wrong though.
I am thin. Hated forever by my friends growing up because I can eat whatever I want and not have to think about it. I’ve been the same weight since I was in high school—at five foot six, I’ve stayed one hundred and eleven pounds—I know. I’m an asshole. I have great hair too--it’s long, past my shoulders and black. I have my dad’s blue eyes so the contrast can be startling for some. I don’t really wear make-up and try and downplay my looks, but I know I’m lucky that I don’t have to think about what’s happening on the exterior part of me… the interior part, now that’s another story.
That’s a whole hot mess.
I’m a Monet— from far away it looks good, but when you get up close and personal that’s when you start to see all the flaws. The meshing of colors… the blurry lines, the parts that don’t make any sense.
The imperfections.
I can go on and on, but who has the time? I’ve already internally dissected myself on a daily basis for years and the math always checks out. There’s something intrinsically unlovable about me. The asshole that left last made sure I knew it too. It was me not him, he said. I was the problem. I was a pretty vase meant to be kept in a case and if broken, a mess of an embarrassment inside.