Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
“There’s not much to tell. We had sex like four years ago. I didn’t know at the time who he was. It was a one-night stand. The end. I had a few drinks that night, and it just happened. But that’s it, and that’s all that will happen.” Billie and Ivy exchange a glance, biting their bottom lips. They want to argue. “I’m serious.”
“Is that really all you’re going to tell us? Is he at least packing a big cock?” Ivy asks.
Billie starts laughing, and I can’t help but do the same. I’m used to hearing about Ivy’s conquests and Billie’s before Ford on the rare occasions her brother never found out and the poor guy didn’t end up terrorized or dead. But it feels strange to be in this position, especially as I remind them nothing is going on between me and Braxton.
And it has to stay that way.
This can’t get out. Even if I want to gossip with my best friends about it.
And besides, it was a one-off.
That delicious little creature in the depths of my soul wants to come to life all over again. But it’s not a risk I can take. Having more sex like that will definitely ruin any other man for me. Braxton will ruin me and draw out that thing I’ve tried to suppress for so long.
It resides alongside my deepest darkest secrets, including my fixation with the dead.
Some lies are best buried, and so I’ll take Braxton to the grave with me. But I’ll be putting him in his own coffin first.
CHAPTER 23
Hope
I’ve been dreaming every fucking night about having his mouth on me, and I wake up with my hands between my legs. I hate that he can do this to me when all I want to do is strangle him—and his perfect cock.
Though, I think he’d actually like it if I strangled his cock.
Revisiting that night again and again like it’s on a maddening, repetitive loop has been distracting me from my work in the studio.
I’m currently at the diner, half expecting him to appear. This morning, I had another statue delivered to his apartment. Just like the others, it was packaged in a black box.
This latest piece was of the victim at the nightclub who’d had his neck broken. I really enjoyed focusing on his throat, making those twists in the glass work. Despite not having proof that it’s me sending the statues, Braxton’s adamant that it is. It’s flattering as much as it is annoying because there really is no connection between my normal art and the darker pieces. So I have no fucking idea how he knows. If he had proof, he would’ve called me down to the station already. Maybe I’m getting too daring and cocky. But I can’t seem to stop.
If this asshole intends to continue showing up wherever my family is, of course, I’m going to bite back a little. Maybe a lot. And it has nothing to do with the fact that I can’t stop imagining myself biting him.
Nothing’s guaranteed with Braxton Hero, but one thing I can rely on is his ability to appear when he’s not wanted. I just know he’s going to show up to see me eventually.
I spent fourteen hours in the studio today. I’d become so immersed in my recent piece that I lost track of time, like I often do. And now I’m sitting in my usual booth, lost in my book. Reading helps me unwind; it takes me away from focusing on my creative flow and refills my well. And depending on the book, I get plenty of creative ideas from reading especially when I read thrillers.
It’s the same when I’m creating art. I have the music up so loud that it’s almost deafening, but it drowns out everything else and helps me concentrate. I like to keep the real world at a distance. I find it distracting, and interacting with people is draining. My father shares a similar sentiment, and it’s my mother who always encourages us to get out of the house from time to time.
I bring the hot coffee to my lips as I flip to the next page. I’m at the part of the story where the main character finds her husband cheating on her. Suddenly, it’s ripped from my hands.
“Excuse yo—” The words die on my lips as I meet Braxton’s arrogant gaze.
“Hello, Shortcake.”
It’s not his dazzling beauty that has my breath hitching this time. It’s what he’s holding instead.
It’s the most recent statue I had delivered to his home. I conceal any open appreciation for the piece. In fact, I try to act repulsed. “What is that?” I ask, pointing to it.
“It’s a murder victim,” he says, twisting the glass replica of the body back and forth. The detail in the throat really catches the light. It truly is a magnificent piece. Selfishly, I’m so glad I can share it with someone. For so long, they’d gone unseen. “You’re still denying that you created these?”