Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“You’re an agent of chaos,” I mutter. “You were finally starting to forget about that first kiss, and then you had to go and kiss him again. It’s like you’re determined to make your life harder.”
My reflection doesn’t argue. She just stands there looking like a woman who makes excellent food and terrible decisions, especially when it comes to men. First, I let my Probably Mr. Perfect For Me get away. Then I married Christian, the sexy asshole who emptied my bank account, before divorcing him and going on to date every loser in the greater New Orleans area.
Now, I’m seriously thinking about grabbing my vibrator and fantasizing about the man I used to babysit before heading to bed.
I’m weak. Pathetic. And on the verge of fetching Mr. Buzzy from the bottom bin in the bathroom when I hear it…
A weird sloshing sound from the lobby.
It’s a wet, wrong sound, like something from a horror film. The sound the gloppy alien blob creature makes as it oozes across the tile on its way to make a meal of the dumb heroine prancing around in her underwear, thinking about boys…
Pulse spiking, I grab the nearest weapon—the mop still drying in the utility sink—and tiptoe toward the counter, wondering how the hell someone got in. The door locks automatically, and I would swear I pulled it closed behind me.
Slorsh. Slorsh…
The sound gets louder as I near the front. Then, I step out into the service area to see that it isn’t an alien blob creature oozing around in the building, after all.
It’s something much, much worse.
“Fuck my life,” I mutter, stomach sinking as I take in the water pouring in under the main doors and spreading out to fill the lobby.
It’s already several inches deep and rising fast. I stagger forward, jaw dropping as I get a better look outside. The street isn’t a street anymore. It’s a river, a literal river where twenty minutes ago a car pulled up to drop me off.
Cheesus Forking Christ, this is escalating quickly.
At this rate, there will be water in the restaurant in minutes.
In the restaurant, aka my home, the place where everything I own is currently stored…
“Shit!” Dropping the mop, I race into the back again, adrenaline spiking hard enough to banish the last of the three a.m. exhaustion.
My fancy knives from Paris! My grandmother’s recipe box! The vintage vinyl record collection I just got back from my stupid ex-boyfriend, Chuck, two weeks ago! The photo of me and my father at a daddy-daughter barbeque competition in third grade, before he decided my obsession with cooking was an embarrassment and a waste of the good grades I should have used to become a lawyer like him.
I grab a milk crate and start throwing things in, but it’s barely half full when water starts leaking into the kitchen.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, grabbing the bins with my clothes from the bathroom and using my stepladder to shove them atop the storage unit as fast as I can.
At this point in my life, I can’t afford to buy a completely new wardrobe. Or a new vibrator. Or new anything else, for that matter.
I get all three bins up, but by the time I step back to the floor after the third, the water is up to my ankles.
How is this happening so fast? At this rate, I’m going to have to run out of here wearing nothing but La Perla underwear bought at a time when my finances weren’t in the shitter.
I briefly consider heading back up the ladder to fetch something decent to wear and change, but fuck that.
My records are more important than my dignity.
“Not today, Satan,” I mutter, hefting the crate containing Joni Mitchell, The Doobie Brothers, and all my other precious vinyl goodies onto the highest shelf. Next, I fill a larger crate with pots, pans, and my specialty spices. My arms shake as I hoist it up, and I nearly tumble backward as the heavy weight leaves my hands.
I reach out to catch myself on the shelf.
It wobbles, I wobble, and for a split second, I think it’s over for both of us.
Thank God, it rocks back into place a beat later, but me and my shelf aren’t out of the woods yet. The water is still rising—fast. By the time I get the box with all my legal documents shoved in beside everything else, it’s up to my waist, and I’m trembling all over from a mixture of cold and adrenaline.
It’s time.
Time to get the fuck out of here.
I wade toward the counter again, planning to exit the building and head up the stairs on the left side toward higher ground. There’s a little terrace up there, where the smokers hang out after lunch. I’m not sure if there’s a way to get out of downtown from there, but I should at least be safe from the floodwater while I call for help.