Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
My mouth drops open to respond yet nothing comes out.
The first time we met I swore the reason I didn’t say anything was because I didn’t want to scare her off. I mean I don’t have like a horror movie voice or something that sends people running for the hills, it’s just in my experience, I’ve learned talking makes the situation – my situation – too real for some people. And I didn’t want her to go through that. Especially when she was just so…open, ya know? So…sweet. However, now I’m beginning to wonder if maybe I just can’t talk around her. Like maybe my mind has morphed into believing that if I speak it’ll ruin everything. Because that’s what I fucking do. I fucking ruin everything. Ruin shit and get others killed. That’s my fucking M.O.
“I ask too many questions,” Pizza Woman brushes off when she doesn’t receive a response. “I’m sorry. Would you believe me if I told you that that’s totally not usually how I am? That most of the time people have to like yank me into a conversation?” She has another bashful bite of her bottom lip prompting my eyes to steal a hungry glance of the damn thing. “Holy shit, I just asked two more questions right after declaring I ask too many questions!”
It’s impossible not to smirk.
Quietly chuckle.
“God, I hope you’re laughing with me and not at me.”
Still unable to form words, I hastily nod.
“Good,” she warmly coos, empty hand curling around the edge of her long, tight-fitted, black sleeve shirt. “So, I just ordered this about an hour ago.” Pizza Woman casually continues, our eyes locked once more. “It’s not hot, but it’s far from cold. Definitely warmer than anything you might find over there.” Her head makes a small motion towards the bins. “And I hate leftover Chinese food above all others.”
My head tilts to the side in a wordless questioning nature.
“First there’s the way the rice hardens and then you can’t reheat it because gets gross and mushy and who wants that shit in their mouth? And then there’s the way the bread on the chicken gets too soggy or stale. I mean even if you reheat it in the oven there’s really no bringing that shit back to life or restoring it to its natural glory. But you wanna know what I hate most of all? The way its smell just commandeers the whole fucking house when you simply open the fridge! Seriously, are there really people out in the world who would rather wake up to the smell of sweet and sour pork versus Folgers? Not that I drink Folgers – I have one of those fancy single serve machines that comes with the pods – and not that this is sweet and sour pork. It’s Sesame Chicken. I wish it were General Tso’s because I love the little kick that peppers give when it’s done right but unless I’m sharing it with my dad, I tend to order this because…well…because it’s what I’m expected to.”
Her choice of phrasing furrows my eyebrows.
“Was expected to.”
The correction deepens the concern.
What the fuck does that mean? Was she…tortured into eating a certain type of fucking chicken?
“Ohmygod, I’m rambling,” Pizza Woman mumbles in obvious shame, curly ponytail whipping back and forth as she shakes her head. “I’m sorry about that. I don’t mean to. You’re just…I guess…really um…,” her eyes cut a glance down to her shuffling feet, “easy to talk to.”
First free food.
Then judgement free conversation.
And now a fucking compliment?
Am I hallucinating or is this really happening to me?
“And I hope someday we are talking to each other instead of just me talking at you.” She offers the container a little higher for me to finally take. “I promise I’m a pretty good listener even if I’m terrible talker.”
I take the unexpected prize into my possession at the same time I prepare to playfully argue as well as express my gratitude; however, my jaw has barely finished lowering when the sudden repeated flashing of headlights occurs interrupting my intentions.
Instinctively, my entire frame wavers.
Changes mechanisms.
Makes me unsteady on my tactical boot covered feet yet pushes the rest of my body to fumble onward.
Get the fuck out of dodge.
Avoid the bullets whirling by.
It’s the middle of a fucking warzone! Of course, I gotta stay low to avoid being hit.
High pitched screams and barbaric last cries have me unsure of which way I should go for my next move.
Is it left to run towards my team? Right? And where are those women we saw earlier? Were they in on this? Were they innocent victims killed by a stray bullet?!
Gripping my gear tighter, I clumsily hustle around the lifeless soldiers, determined to get to Hiltz and St. Clair. Adamant about doing whatever it takes to get them out of this shit. All of us left out of this fucking ambush.