Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 29132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
“Will do.” Noah gave Bruce a brief salute before turning to wander down the rows of vegetables, pulling in deep lungfuls of the country air.
His friends back in the city thought he was crazy for wanting to move out to Texas, but they didn’t know how good the air smelled here. Or how the sun seemed to shine a little brighter, promising that good things were just around the corner. The Bay Area was a place of brooding fog and chilly mornings, even in the dead of summer.
Noah loved the people he worked with and had enjoyed his time in Nor Cal, but he was ready for something simpler, sunnier. Ready for big blue skies and stretches of land without a manmade structure for miles and room to breathe and grow things. Things like vegetables and babies and dreams that have nothing to do with binary code.
Small towns have their downsides too, you know.
It’s not all bug-resistant asparagus and picturesque town squares and delicious homemade moonshine that’ll knock you flat on your ass for half the price of two designer martinis.
Noah stretched his arms out wide and lifted his face to the sun, ignoring the voice of caution. Sure, he might be romanticizing small town life a little, but he wasn’t imagining how good he felt every time he came to Lonesome Point. Even Spermgate couldn’t completely get him down.
He was walking through verdant fields of thriving living things, he would soon have the crisis contained, and all would be well with the world.
The thought had barely crossed his mind when a sound like the battle cry of a deranged banshee shattered the peaceful country air. It was a sound straight out of the depths of hell and sent a shiver dancing up his spine.
“Help!” a breathless voice shouted. “Oh please, help! I can’t run anymore!”
Noah turned to see quite possibly the biggest rooster in existence chasing a petite, red-faced woman in a white sundress across the fallow field at the edge of Bruce’s property. There was already blood on the backs of her legs and the monster tailing her was clearly out for more.
Without stopping to wonder how one went about fighting a rooster, Noah set off at a sprint through the knee high grass. He didn’t consider himself a hero, but there were certain things a man did without question.
He opened doors.
He paid for dinner.
And he offered his fists in service to women being pursued by rabid, demon cocks.
CHAPTER THREE
Yasmin
Just when Yasmin was certain that death-via-rooster was in her imminent future, Bruce O’Sullivan turned and ran toward her, coming to the rescue.
Wait a second…
That wasn’t Bruce O’Sullivan.
This man was a little taller, a little thicker, but no less handsome. In fact, he was flipping hot as hell. If she wasn’t already out of breath, seeing such a stunning specimen sprinting her way in faded jeans that hugged his manly thighs, a tight red tee that left no doubt his chest was equally manly, and a ball cap that completed the typical good old boy outfit would have done the job.
She’d sworn off men, but that didn’t mean she was blind. Or dead.
At least not yet.
“Ow!” She cried out in pain as Sampson took advantage of her momentary distraction and exhaustion to aim another wicked peck at her ankle. She tried to speed up, but her muscles were tapped out.
Thankfully, Not Bruce O’Sullivan arrived a second later and aimed a booted foot at the rooster, summoning an outraged squawk from the foul-tempered creature. Yasmin spun, bracing her hands on her knees and struggling to catch her breath, just in case Not Bruce lost this battle and more running-for-her-life was needed.
But it looked like Not Bruce was determined to take out the threat to their safety. His well-aimed kicks and deep calls for Sampson to “get out of here” and “pick on someone your own size” had the rooster on the defensive. Sampson backed away, wings flapping and his shiny green tail feathers bristling. A half mile back, Yasmin had still been concerned about protecting Sampson’s prize-winning pelt, but now she was just hoping to emerge without any scars. If Sampson was damaged, her mother was just going to have to deal with it.
And hopefully, stop breeding roosters from this diseased bloodline.
Finally, after chasing the rooster a good fifty feet away, Not Bruce turned back to her to ask, “Are you all right?”
It was a fatal mistake.
Before Yasmin could warn him never to turn his back on an enraged rooster, Sampson struck. One moment, Not Bruce was walking back toward her, the next he was crying out in pain as a rooster beak made intimate contact with his backside.
“What the—” He spun, batting at the bird, but Sampson had already struck again and again until the man had no choice but to make a run for it.