Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
His hair is unruly, yet it’s the perfect look for him.
He exudes wealth, even though he doesn’t seem the type to flaunt it.
“That excites you?” he asks, and I turn away from him.
I shouldn’t have smiled.
He’ll think I’m crazy now.
But death interests me.
Maybe I should have gotten a job as a coroner.
No, fuck that. I dream of cutting into people when they’re alive, not after they’re dead.
“What’s your real job?” I ask, not answering his question.
“I own Patrick’s Aviation,” he tells me, watching me intently as if waiting for my reaction to his words.
I recall hearing of it. I think I saw it on a Forbes list once.
“So, you fly planes?”
“Among other things.”
“You don’t kill people?” I ask, hoping he can’t read the extreme interest pouring from me right now. “I think you should come home with me,” I add when he doesn’t say anything.
“If I kill people, your sense of judgment would be terrible right now,” he says, studying me.
“You never know. Maybe I’m hoping you’ll kill me… or my pussy.” I wink at him. Something about this man intrigues me, and I am hoping he will do things to my body that will make me feel, compared to the dead inside feeling that my husband inflicted. Even after I settled for him, hoping that one day I might feel normal with a husband, but instead, mine went and cheated on me—the bastard.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Lilith.”
He smirks. “Is that real or made up?”
Reaching into my purse, I pull out my ID and show it to him. He eyes me before he nods.
“What’s yours?”
“Reon.”
Scrunching up my nose, I say, “That’s a weird name.”
“If you say so.”
I down the rest of my vodka before I turn back to him. “Ready to go?”
He throws money on the counter and stands. “Where?”
“To fuck, where else.”
“Why so eager? Wouldn’t you prefer I take you out for dinner first?” Reon questions.
“How often do you do that?” I ask, my hand going to my hip. I don’t want this to be complicated. I want this to be fun. It’s something I haven’t done in a long time.
“Well…” He thinks about it. “Never.”
“You’ve never been married?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Good. It’s overrated.”
Turning, I stride to the door and pull it open. The night air hits me first, and then I feel the alcohol hit me even harder. With what I had at home, plus here, I’m just over the line of tipsy but not drunk enough to forget everything that happened today. “What’s the time?”
“Seven,” he answers, and I smile. That means Deven will likely be asleep—his job demands that he start early because something so mundane as fucking his co-host would not affect his routine, or you know, the fact that his marriage is falling apart.
“When was the last time you had sex?” I ask, heading down the street, with him following behind me. I don’t live too far from here. Deven likes living closer to the city, but I hate it.
I’d prefer to live on a large plot of land without neighbors.
Fuck everyone.
“Maybe I should have asked if you’re a serial killer,” Reon says as he comes up next to me, his hands sliding into his pockets.
I stop and turn to him.
His jaw is sharp, and his eyes see more than they should. I feel as though, like mine, they may be a little dead inside. His crisp black suit and tie exude an air of class—one that makes me second-guess this, but then I see the ink peeking out. I notice a few tattoos on his fingers and a ring on his index finger. He has a light stubble, but the perfect kind that blends into his hair. Nothing about him appears out of place.
Deven has sandy-blond hair, a body that most would deem a dad bod—although we did plan on having children—and a contagious smile. I never liked men who were cut and chiseled. Most of the time, their arrogance overshadowed their ability to fuck, and I grew bored too quickly. It was Deven’s smile that won me over. That, and his personality. Both were attractive and gave me an inkling of normalcy. Something that told me I wasn’t completely dead on the inside.
“I mean, I thought about it,” I muse aloud. “You never know who you might meet in a bar. For all you know, I could be a black widow, picking up poor, unsuspecting men in bars. I could fuck you within an inch of your life and finish the job straight after. But these are two-thousand-dollar shoes, and I refuse to ruin them with your blood.” I glance down at my heels, then back up to him to see his gaze stuck on my shoes. And then it travels up my legs.
I turn and start walking again, and he follows.
He could kill me at any moment, and a part of me is excited at that thought, while another part wants him to wait until I get home.