Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Based on the sunset in the window, it must be late afternoon. I’ve missed my classes.
I rub my temples. Thank God the pain is gone. I recall Blaze carrying me inside our house and taking charge. He set me on the couch and, with my instructions, found my meds in the bathroom, got me a glass of water, and watched me take them. He grabbed my eye mask from the freezer, cranked up my diffuser, and sat in the chair across from me while I drifted off on the couch. He must have carried me to my bedroom after I fell asleep.
I hear a soft snore behind me on the bed and turn my head to see him there, lying on his side facing me. His arm is thrown over my waist, and I blink, wondering how I missed it. I study him, taking in his handsome face, soft with sleep, his full lips slightly parted as he breathes deeply. A little scar, a half-moon shape, sits over his right eyebrow, cutting through the hair there. I turn more until I’m facing him then trace it lightly with the tip of my finger, not wanting to wake him.
The hair doesn’t grow where the scar is and it fascinates me. I picture him as a kid, getting dirty and playing hard.
“Fishing accident,” he says, startling me as his eyes open.
“Oh?” My voice is soft.
“We had a pond behind our house, and I used to take a pole and try my luck there. I went to throw the line out, it got tangled in some brush, and when I jerked on it, the hook popped me in the eyebrow.” He smiles. “Blood everywhere. You would have passed out. I ran back to the house, rod and all. Nobody was home and I ended up in the bathroom, where I pulled it out by myself. Scared the shit out of me.”
“No stitches?”
“No. I’m tough.”
“You should have gotten stitches. If I was your mom—”
“Nah, don’t start with that now. Besides, chicks dig scars.” He makes a mean scowl and the eyebrow drops low. I laugh…until his finger lifts and touches my eyebrow, tracing it. “Now, you, on the other hand…I’ve never seen such elegant brows.”
“It takes a lot of plucking and waxing to get this sexy look.”
“It’s working.”
We stare at each other, and I’m acutely aware that there’s barely any space between us. At least we’re dressed.
“Thank you for bringing me home.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Did you miss class?”
“I’ll take care of it. How often do you get migraines?”
“It used to be a lot, but I have daily meds that keep it to a few times a year. Back to you—you sure you missing class is okay?”
“Stop worrying about me. I’m studying every night.” He gives me a brief smile and stares up at the ceiling.
“Are you gonna fuck or what, bitches?” squawks Vampire Bill from his cage.
Blaze leans up on his elbow and eyes the parrot. “You’re one rude motherfucker.” There’s no heat in his words, and the bird eyes him warily.
“Rude motherfucker!” he repeats back.
Blaze bursts out laughing.
I slap him on the arm. “Thanks. Now he’ll be saying that all day. I meant to put him out in the den this morning. He likes to sit by the front door and watch cars. He’s freakishly smart. Sometimes I think he’s plotting, waiting for an opportunity to fly away. Poor thing has a misshapen wing. He can fly about five feet and then he’s out.”
“I’ll move him. I should get up anyway, now that you’re awake.” He sits up and inches down to the end of my bed.
My eyes follow him, part of me wishing he hadn’t gotten up.
Dangerous, Charisma.
He walks over to the bird, reaches into the cage, and rubs him on the head.
I ease up until I’m propped against the pillows. “He likes you. He’s not that crazy about guys.”
“Score for me.” He flashes his smile at the bird, and I swear the damn thing weaves on his little feet.
“Are you some kind of hypnotist?”
He pauses and looks back at me. “If I were, I’d hypnotize you.”
“Yeah? What would you make me do?”
Blue eyes lower, drifting over my face.
“Kiss me. Friends can do that, right?”
Oh. I feel lightheaded as I adjust my pillows. “Not normally, no.”
He clears his throat and tears his gaze off me. He picks up my acoustic guitar in the corner of the room and holds it up. “You play?”
I blush. “Not well. I got it in my head last year to take lessons, but as it turns out, I suck. Probably not the right instrument for me. I like upbeat, harder sounds.”
“Like?”
“Joan Jett, Poison, Bon Jovi, Metallica. I’m old school.”
“I’ve got a song for you. Not hard rock, but the words won’t get out of my head lately.” He cradles the guitar, sitting on the end of my bed and strumming out a soft tune with long fingers. He plays the bridge with ease, his head nodding as the soft timbre of his voice shifts into song. The pitch is perfect, the husky quality skilled as the sound reverberates in my small room.