Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Harder.
Faster.
One punch becomes two.
Two becomes three.
Three transforms into the prelude to me kneeling on his chest. Wrapping my hands around his pencil neck, I begin squeezing with everything I have, wanting him – needing him – to experience the ache he summoned over taking her.
Over…killing her.
How could I let this happen?
His hands fruitlessly pound on my sides until I inch up further pinning his shoulders down instead.
How could I not save her?
His lower half kicks the edge of the wooden frame for reprieve.
How could I fail the most important mission of my goddamn life?!
His crystal stare that’s similar to mine widens during the continued oxygen deprivation convincing me to angle my wrists inward so that my thumbs can dig into his octal cavities on a malicious, madness fueled roar.
All of a sudden, an unexpected movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention over to the bathroom door. I thoughtlessly loosen my hold at the same time I croak, “Angel Cake?!”
Rosenkrantz takes advantage of the slack, forcefully shoves me off, and sits up straight to suck in a deep breath. I prepare to launch myself back up onto my feet to finish what I started when a round pierces the back of his head only to come out through the very territory, I was gouging split seconds ago. His lissome frame teeters over to the headboard announcing his death with an almost cartoonish thud that sends my bright gaze back to the woman of my dreams.
She carefully lowers the gun, mangled rope dangling from each of her wrists. “Status report?”
Inexplicable relief weasels itself along every bone in my body during my hasty crawl over to her. “Grateful.”
“Holes?”
“No new ones.”
My best friend sweetly interrogates, shaky hands still gripping the firearm “Bones?”
“Intact.”
“Cuts?”
“They’ll heal.” I declare in tandem with transferring my Baretta back to me. “Fuck, everything will heal, baby. It always does.”
Sliding the safety on occurs as she asks, “So, does this whole putting a bullet in his brain thing count as me saving you, Cowboy? Or maybe we can call it a fifty-fifty split?” Softness fusing with playfulness. “That seems fair to me.”
“We can call it whatever the fuck you like as long as you’re alive to call it, Angel Cake.”
There isn’t time for her to even smile at the statement before my mouth captures Arley’s. While one palm cradles the secure weapon, the other roughly cups her face, lips savagely spreading hers to grant my tongue all the access it needs to taste what it momentarily feared it would never taste again.
Caress what it worried it would never caress again.
Claim who I broke a promise to about keeping safe.
I don’t care what I have to do in the future to guarantee that my word is never broken again, I’ll do it.
I’ll light every candle.
Beg every angel.
Bargain with the big man himself using my life for hers as long as it means she’s secure.
Protecting Arlette Carmichael from now through eternity is my new mission.
And needless to say, I think I’ve spent my whole life preparing for it.
Epilogue
About 4 ½ Years Later…
Arley
“Angel Cake,” beautiful blue lettering, glides down to land on the keyboard in front of me, “I thought we agreed to no work on anniversary trips and family vacations.”
Agreement implies both parties consented.
Nay, we did not.
He did the thing he always does, which I both love and hate even to this day.
He spoke.
Declared it.
And then refused to fight or argue or entertain anything else.
Thankfully, he didn’t try that tactic when it came to naming our twin girls, Allaira – and Alura aka Lair Bear and Lu.
Not that it would’ve worked.
Especially considering the pregnant woman he would’ve been up against was told to stay off her feet due to swelling, which meant that baking her worries and stress away wasn’t an option.
Without diverting my attention away from the data on the screen, I casually retort, “I’m not working.”
I’m really not.
In fact, working less over the past few years is absolutely something I have stayed committed to.
After having my life nearly ended one too many times by someone housing a revenge plot, I wasn’t responsible form I chose to continue to lean into the work less, play more mentality. As a result of that unfortunate period in our lives, I found a side of myself I really needed.
I found courage.
And a willingness to be seen.
And heard.
And at times understood by the world that had been too cold for too long.
Slater and I kept going to hockey games and eventually began renting a season box, which is best for the girls as well as me. We’ve been to concerts – both country and rock – although we don’t typically stay long. Even with earplugs helping filter the sounds, they’re quite overwhelming. Dining out weekly and double dating monthly and doing things I never pictured myself doing, like skydiving or giving the speech at my brother’s wedding all became big battles we won together.