Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
He surveys the scene, eyes me up and down, and grins. “You’re gorgeous, sweetheart, but also wound tighter than a drum. Want a glass now, or are you pacing yourself?”
I wipe my hands on the apron (his old Air Force one, because mine is in a box somewhere) and say, “Maybe just half a glass. I don’t want to slur my toast.”
He pours, but instead of half, it’s a generous three-finger measure. “Consider it tactical support.”
I sip, willing the liquid to soften my nerves. “Do you think they’ll notice? About us, I mean.”
Jack leans against the counter, arms folded, all easy confidence. “That you’re living here? Probably, since there’s a literal shrine of your stuff in the bathroom.”
I smile, but he’s not wrong. My skincare routine now claims more territory than the fridge’s beer drawer. “No, I mean about the… other thing.”
Jack gives me the look. Not annoyed, but the one that says, “You already know the answer.” He slides a hand around my waist, pulling me in close enough to smell the pinot on his breath. “We’re careful when we film, Eliza. You’ve said it yourself—no face, no name, no way to trace. Besides, Tara already knows that you cam for an audience, you said. She just has no idea that I’ve joined you in the business.”
I nod because that’s the craziest, but best part of my time as BunnySnowGirl. The fact is that Bunny now has Wolf, and we’ve released a couple of pre-recorded videos. Judging from the comments, people really like to see me impale myself on a huge dick, and I got a lot more subscriptions to my channel. Like a lot more.
But then, the timer dings, and I leap away, oven mitts already on before I hit the door. The blast of heat almost makes me drop the pan, but I recover, setting it on the stovetop with a clatter. The skin of the chicken is perfectly brown, glistening, and for a second, pride eclipses panic.
Jack’s hand finds the small of my back. “Looks like something out of Bon Appetit. Should we take a picture for your mom?”
I give him a look. “She’s blocked me, remember?”
He grins and shrugs. “Unblockable by chicken.”
Before I can answer, the doorbell rings—sharp, precise, as if whoever’s there wants to announce themselves without actually entering.
Jack nods to me, then moves to the foyer, moving with the smooth, rolling gait of a confident male animal. I tidy up stray celery on the counter, then pull the apron over my head and toss it aside. I fluff my hair, check my teeth in the microwave’s reflection, and try to look like someone who isn’t living in perpetual identity crisis.
Tara’s laugh comes first—a wild, throaty whoop that carries from the porch. She’s in her usual uniform: distressed jeans, crop top, and a thrifted kimono with fringe that brushes her calves. She’s gorgeous of course, blonde hair in long waves down her back and sparkling blue eyes, complete with a curvy figure. She flings herself at me, arms wide, and I catch the scent of patchouli, rose, and vape juice.
“Eliza!” she yells, hugging so hard my ribs creak. “You look amazing. Oh my god, is that chicken? Are you Betty Crocker now?”
I laugh, feeling a layer of the anxiety slide off. “Only for you.”
She leans in, conspiratorial, and whispers, “Congrats on doing so well in your second job, by the way.” Her eyes glint with the secret. “I showed my roommate the one with the three toys, and she was like, ‘Who is this girl? She’s a goddess.’”
My cheeks flare, but I can’t help the pride blooming in my chest. “You’re not supposed to tell anyone! Oh my god! But tell your roommate she’s welcome to tip.”
Tara grins. “She will, and I’ll make sure she tips a lot,” then releases me to scan the house. “Where did Jack go?”
“He’s setting the wine,” I say, then hear another set of footsteps. Jeremy—tall, bony, with the perpetual air of someone who’s surprised to find himself anywhere—follows, wearing an ill-fitting blazer over a Star Wars T-shirt. He nods at me, then moves to the dining room where Jack’s fiddling around with the drinks. Jeremy zeroes in immediately.
“Hey yo,” he says, inspecting the pinot. “Is this the stuff that’s supposed to have notes of, like, dirt and moss?”
Jack nods, pouring him a glass. “It’s ‘earthy,’ which is wine-speak.”
Jeremy shrugs. “I’m more of a whiskey guy. But, you know, when in Rome.” He sips, winces, then drains it in a single go. “Yup, just what I thought. Tastes like ass. Thanks, man.”
Tara and I exchange a glance in the kitchen, and she mouths, “I’m sorry.” What the heck is my gorgeous friend doing with such a loser? But we don’t have time to chat because then, we peek into the dining room, which Jack has set with not just the fancy dishes but also candles—real candles, not the LED ones my parents use to prevent “fire hazards.” Tara claims a seat near the kitchen, while Jeremy plants himself across from Jack, already stacking his plate with charcuterie and olives.