Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
I begin lowering my face into the water, but Kat grips my hair, stopping my movement.
“Ariel is mute when she’s human remember?” she says. “Her voice is trapped in that necklace thing. So let me say this now: I had a really great time tonight, my love. I love you so much—and, oh, you fucked me brilliantly.”
“I love you, too,” I say. “Now quit your yapping, Ariel. It’s time for me to show you what that whatzit between your legs can do.”
Epilogue
Josh
I pull my brand new, cherry-red Ferrari FF into my driveway and sit for a moment, singing along to the song blaring through my speakers. It’s my current theme song: “All I Do Is Win” by DJ Khaled. When the fucking awesome song finishes, I kill the engine of my fucking awesome car and lovingly caress my steering wheel.
“I love you, baby,” I say softly to my beautiful car—my thirty-first birthday present to myself. It’s just a little something to celebrate how fucking hard I’m winning at The Game of Fucking Life. God-damn, I’m a fucking beast. All I do is win, win, win, baby. Fuck yeah, I do. No matter what. Because I’m a winner. Truth.
I run my hands tenderly over my steering wheel again, exhaling with near-sexual pleasure as I do. God-damn, this is a beautiful fucking car. I get a hard-on every time I get behind the wheel. Fuck yeah, I do. I’ve got a beautiful fucking Ferrari to match my beautiful fucking Ferrari of a wife and my sweet little baby girl and fucking awesome house ten minutes away from my fucking awesome brother.
And not only that, Climb and Conquer is absolutely slaying it these days—we’ve already shattered our mid-year revenue projections and we’re planning major expansion in seven more markets later this year—plus, our designated charities are all flourishing, too. As it turns out, Jonas’ entire business model was pure fucking genius. Surprise, surprise.
And, on top of all that, when I got home from work last night, I’d no sooner taken two steps through my front door than my beautiful sick fuck of a wife silently greeted me at the door by unzipping my pants, kneeling before me, and sucking my big ol’ dick ’til I exploded into her waiting mouth. God-damn, I’m crushing life. Winner, winner, chicken fucking dinner, baby. Boo-fucking-yah.
I pull my phone out of my glove box and quickly scan my texts, and, as expected, there’s a message from good ol’ fucking awesome and reliable T-Rod, confirming everything’s set for my romantic-stay-at-home birthday dinner with my two favorite blondes. “Everyone’s already at your house, setting up,” Theresa writes. “Chef, waiter, violin, cello. Oh, and I added a viola just for yucks. Have fun, Birthday Boy!”
I shoot off a quick reply. “Thanks a million, T. Just got home. Gonna be a great night.”
I tilt my rearview mirror toward my face and survey my reflection. Handsome motherfucker. Lucky bastard. Winner. I run my hand through my hair, carefully smoothing a stray, and straighten the knot on my Roberto Cavalli necktie.
I pick up the bouquet of gardenias and the velvet jewelry box sitting on the passenger seat of my fucking awesome car—what better way to celebrate my birthday than giving my wife more ice for her ever-growing collection?—and then I bound happily toward the front door of my fucking awesome house, clicking the heels of my Stefano Bemer shoes, singing the DJ Khaled song under my breath as I go.
But when I get inside my house, it’s perfectly quiet. No hustle-bustle; no signs of preparations for a birthday dinner; no wife dropping to her knees as she greets me in the doorway.
I peek into the kitchen. No chef. I check the dining area. No violinist, cellist or viola-ist. (What the fuck do you call someone who plays a viola?)
“Kat?” I call.
But my smokin’ hot wife is nowhere to be found.
I head into the nursery and, lo and behold, there’s my mother-in-law, sitting in a glider with Gracie, quietly reading her a book about farm animals.
Louise looks up from the book in her hands and her face lights up. “Happy birthday!” she says. “Look, Gracie. Daddy-the-birthday-boy is here!” Louise gets up from the glider, toting Gracie in her arms.
“Hi, Gramma Lou,” I say, kissing Louise on her cheek. “Where’s my wife?”
“Oh, she went out,” Louise says.
“What? We were supposed to have a romantic dinner-for-two-and-a-half here at the house. I had everything all set up.”
“Yes. And, I must say, everything you arranged looked very romantic, indeed—absolutely stunning. The chef was a real sweetheart, too. He took it very well when Kat sent him and the musicians to Colby’s house, instead.” Louise leans in like she’s telling me a secret. “Colby’s got a hot date with his physical therapist tonight, so I’m sure he’ll greatly appreciate everything you had planned.”