Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“I think I’m done.” A pleased look crossed Jade’s face as she looked around the now spotless room. Three hours of cleaning up literal shit, and she had a smile on her face? There was no way she was happy to clean up that mess. And if this was supposed to be punishment…
I nodded toward the corner where Dog’s makeshift bed was. The makeshift bed she’d just made, his gutted rat toy pride of place. “Missed a spot. Think it’s probably puke.”
Bellamy snorted before a round of gunfire sounded through the speakers.
“Really, Wolf?”
The immature fuckhead inside of me delighted in the annoyance in Jade’s voice. Shrugging, I aimed my avatar’s shotgun and blew off a zombie’s leg. “Doesn’t look clean to me.”
I glanced back in time to catch her glare at me, then she aimed her spray bottle in the direction of the bed and gave it a hard squirt.
“There.”
Dog ran over, sniffed the spot she’d just sprayed, and sneezed.
“Now that I’ve cleaned up after you like children with no basic life skills, what would you like next?” she asked, her tone arsenic-laced and sugary sweet. She tossed her gloves onto the coffee table. “Maybe I can teach you the alphabet? Or read you a bedtime story?”
Smartass. I met her patronizing gaze, then reached for my backpack at the end of the sofa. “Not really one for bedtime stories.” I chucked the bag onto the coffee table. “But my algebra homework is in the red notebook.”
“Nice to know you’ve become the stereotype.” She took the notebook out of the bag and headed to the dining room. “The football player who doesn’t study and banks their entire future on getting drafted.” That comment bled through me like a slow poison, tugging at every ounce of failure I already felt. Yeah, I couldn’t take this…I paused the game.
“Man,” Bellamy groaned. “I was just about to slit his jugular!”
“Give me a minute.” I headed into the kitchen, where Rogue was harassing Cassie while she cleaned.
A pile of dishes was stacked on the draining board. Cassie wiped water from the countertop before tossing the paper towel at Rogue’s chest with a wet splat.
“Oh, you’re done?” Rogue asked, making Cassie’s eye twitch. Probably because he wasn’t rising to her antics. “Good. Now you can go to the store and pick up the list I sent you.”
Her nostrils flared. A psychotic glaze filled her eyes as she begrudgingly took her phone from her pocket. “Toilet paper, pizzas, and Magnum condoms.” She rolled her eyes. “Bless your delusions.”
“Just go get the stuff.” He fished a wad of cash from his pocket, then tossed it at Cassie like a cheap hooker. “I want a receipt and exact change.”
If it were possible for steam to come out of someone’s ears, a massive plume would have been blowing out of Cassie’s right about then. I’d once seen her take a pitcher of iced tea and dump it over his head because he hadn’t told her thank you for heating up his Hot Pocket. Honestly, I found their toxic merry-go-round of a relationship fully entertaining.
I pulled the joint from behind my ear and held it up. “Wanna smoke?”
He didn’t answer, just took the weed from me and went to the back door. I followed. The second the door slammed shut behind us, something—most likely a plate—shattered against it.
“Seriously, dude,” I said, descending the rickety steps. “You’re the one who needs to worry about being murdered.” Grass crunched under my feet. “Not me.”
“Megan’s crazy. Cassie just has a temper.”
And tempers were what got people killed…
I sank into one of the lawn chairs I had taken from Dad’s trailer just as I heard the front door slam. “You really think keeping them here for a month is a good idea?”
“It’s not a good idea. It’s a great idea.” The lighter flicked, and the pungent scent of weed drifted in front of my face. “Look, I know it’s petty. Slightly misogynistic…” An engine revved on the street—probably Cassie—and Rogue looked as happy as a pig in shit. “But is it worth it?” His grin widened when the squeal of tires sounded. “Yes.”
Of course it was worth it to him. He lived to get Cassie all riled up.
“And we have free labor,” he said, the nylon of the other chair creaking when he took a seat beside me. “I mean, come on. Do you have any idea how much a maid costs?”
“Do I look like the kind of guy who would?”
“They’re like forty bucks an hour. Which, at say, four hours a day, seven days a week over the course of a month, adds up to about four thousand eight hundred bucks. Per girl.” He lifted the joint to his lips.
Who the fuck had that kind of money? I took in Rogue’s Prada shirt and Balenciaga shoes. Assholes like him.