Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
I count the change of pace as a win.
“Is it working for you like it’s working for me?” I ask sarcastically, and she laughs. Thank God.
“It is what it is. I just…hope he’s nice. And hot. A six-pack and an unbelievably white smile wouldn’t hurt, you know?”
“Oh yeah. I mean, I could go for men who wouldn’t—”
Before I can reply fully, I’m hit with a sudden wave of discomfort. My stomach turns and jumps, sending a jolt of panic into my throat I can’t swallow down. It’s the weirdest feeling of awareness I’ve ever had, and for lack of a better explanation, it feels like someone’s watching me—closely.
Spinning in a tight but slow circle, I scan the women around me for a lingering stare, but I come up empty entirely. They’re all occupied, either chatting with one another or watching the sideshow slideshow above, and the security, too, seems to be conveniently missing.
It must be the alcohol taking a turn for the worse.
“Hey, are you okay?” Hillary asks. Not only did I stop talking to exercise a bout of paranoia right in the middle of a sentence, but I’m holding my stomach like I’m about to be hit with the shits. I can’t imagine how it looks, but truly, I feel too bad to care.
Increasingly worried that I’ll get sick right here in the middle of this reception, I excuse myself with a polite be right back to Hillary and take off at a speed walk for the main door.
The coast looks clear as I push through the heavy wood, intent on finding a bathroom and pronto, but just like this whole farce, it’s nothing more than an illusion.
A Hulk-sized security dude in a black suit steps in front of me and holds up a hand as the other goons come toward me from the opposite end of the hall. They’re pushing racks of some kind of clothing, I think, and the wheels at the bottom all rolling together create an overbearing hum on the plushness of the carpet.
“I just need to go to the bath—”
“One moment,” the man with his hand still held out in front of me interrupts.
As the racks roll by me and through the doors I’ve just come out of, I get a better look at their contents, and my own—stomach contents, specifically—take a turn for the worse.
Holy shit. Those are racks of lingerie!
Panties. Corsets. Bras. Teddies. The whole nine fucking yards. It’s a mobile Victoria’s Secret in this place, and I am horrified at the possibilities of what that means.
If I weren’t already feeling sick, I’d be charging toward it now.
“Please,” I beg. “I really need to go to the restroom. I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
Eyes widening in terror, he says something curt into a microphone attached to his chest and waves me forward, and I follow him in a hurry to a door at the end of the hall. It’s just a swing door—no lock or anything that would make me feel even remotely good about going into a supposed bathroom—but I don’t hesitate for fear that he’ll rescind the offer.
Moving quickly, I take the trash can from the corner and prop it in front of the entrance when it closes behind me just for some modicum of comfort. I know in reality that the strength of a trash can is nothing against the strength of a vampire—or worse, many vampires. If they want in here with me, they’re coming.
Still. Maybe they won’t come in if they hear me cry.
Gripping the vanity with mottled hands, I do the kind of deep breathing I learned in Pilates.
Long-count inhales, hard, audible exhales. It’s like I’m in labor and Lamaze-ing it up.
But I’m so fucking overwhelmed it’s not even funny. To not want to be here in the first place was enough. But to be slapped with the reality of those racks of nothingness they’re trying to pass off as clothes is worthy of all-out panic.
My heart pounds and my ears whoosh as I work to find some semblance of calm in the chaos.
Okay. Okay. It’s okay. I don’t know how it’s okay, but it’s going. To. Be. Okay.
It has to be.
Breathing in through my nostrils and out through my mouth, I take gulps of air and do my best to hold on to the nourishment of oxygen as they move through me.
I consider myself in the mirror—my makeup and curled hair and too-low-cut dress—and try to filter through the emotions that got me here.
Disgust. Obviously.
But more than that, it was intuition.
An overbearing feeling that sent me running for this bathroom for a moment of clarity and the, possibly naïve, hope that I could find some level of comfort in what’s happening.
I don’t know why I thought any of those things or why the gut instinct persists now, but when the ogre outside the bathroom bangs a comically gentle fist on the door, I move my ass. First to the toilet to empty my bladder and give my stomach the chance to settle, and then to the sink to both wash my hands and splash a minuscule amount of cold water on the back of my neck.