Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Instead, I lay on my bed, my pillow squished over my head, tossing and turning as the woman next door groans and pants while getting absolutely run through. I mean, whoever this arrogant bastard is, he’s really giving her everything she’s asking for. He sounds thorough. Inconsiderate, but thorough, and really, that’s all a woman could ever ask for, right? A man who can put in the effort and get her across the finish line. Though to be fair, he’s already gotten her over the finish line at least eight times, assuming I didn’t miss any during my shower.
Feeling absolutely helpless, I put my AirPods in, crank my music as high as it’ll go, and stare up at the dark ceiling, doing absolutely everything I can to drown out the noise from next door.
Is this my life now?
My home is supposed to be my happy place. It’s supposed to bring me peace and comfort, but right now, it’s bringing nothing but overwhelming frustration. Would it be wrong to go over there and silence them permanently? Potentially, but fuck, it’d feel good. At least, for a little while. I’d feel like a piece of shit come morning. Just because I have a tendency to kill people doesn’t mean I’m a bad person. I have good morals. I smile and wave at my neighbors. I always pay my rent on time. I even feed Mrs. Macy’s cat, Ollie, when she visits her grandson every few months. So killing people while experiencing one of life’s greatest pleasures isn’t exactly my vibe, but I’m getting close to crossing that line.
If I have to hear one more “Yes, harder!” I think I’m going to scream.
“Oh, fuck,” a man’s deep groans come through the wall of my bedroom just as the picture frame above my bed falls to the ground, shattering the glass on my floorboards. “Take it. Just like that.”
Arghhhhhhh.
I squish my pillow tighter over my head and scream.
This isn’t normal.
“That’s my good little whore,” he grunts.
That’s it. I’m done. I’m going to kill them. There’s no other option.
Throwing my pillow off my head, I scurry across my bed and lean over, tearing open my bedside drawer and curling my fingers around the gun I keep there for those just-in-case moments. Then, just as I grab the silencer and start twisting it on, my phone comes alive from somewhere within the sheets, instantly pulling me out of the rage-filled irritation clouding my mind.
Gently placing the gun back in the drawer with the silencer still on—you know, just in case—I scramble through my sheets, searching for my phone. There is only one person who would have the absolute indecency to call a woman at this hour.
My best friend—and agency rep—Milan. I mean, that’s not really her name. Just the name she gave herself when we first spoke, and that had everything to do with the fact I was in Milan at that time.
In my world, legal names are not disclosed. Milan only knows me as Crimson Blade. If someone uttered the name Kiara St. James in her ear, she wouldn’t have a clue who that was, just as I wouldn’t have a clue who she truly is. But we don’t need that. Despite not knowing the basic fundamentals of who we truly are, we know enough to have formed a lasting friendship, and for the past few years, that’s all I’ve ever really had. Apart from Spikezilla, of course—the one true companion in my life.
Finding my phone, I scoop it up and immediately accept the call. “You haven’t called,” Milan says, her accusatory tone coming through loud and clear. “Have you not completed the job?”
“Sorry,” I mutter, crashing onto my pillow and pulling my blankets back into place, knowing just how much she lives for the recaps of my missions. “I was meaning to once I got home, but the jet lag really kicked my ass. I crashed the second I hit my couch.”
“Shit. That bad?”
“Isn’t it always?”
“Very true,” she says. “So, how’d the job go? Get it done?”
“Is that doubt I hear in your tone? Have I ever not gotten it done?”
Milan laughs, and her fingers click across a keyboard as she marks the contract complete, making sure I get paid. “I mean, there was that one time in Spain—”
“Shit. I thought we agreed that we’d never mention Spain ever again.”
Her laughs turn into uncontrollable howling. “I know, but I can’t help it,” she says. “I would have paid to see the look on your face when that bull almost turned you into a human piñata, via a thorough sphincter jabbing.”
“Nooooooo,” I groan, remembering it all too clearly. That bull almost turned the phrase tear you another asshole into a chilling reality. And to be honest, I’ve steered clear of accepting contracts in Spain ever since. The PTSD is strong for this one. “Don’t remind me. I’ve had nightmares ever since.”