He was well-charred toast… Want It Wicked
Oh, Jesus. It was Iris.
Sittin’ dead ahead, in the phenomenal flesh.
I blinked, licking dry lips.
Right. Fuckin’. There. In. Front. Of. Me.
Here we go… Yet another sign the man upstairs has A.J. on his shit list. Hell, the prick isn’t even giving me twelve hours to recover from the last sighting!
Thanks a lot, God.
Working on keeping my tongue off the carpet, I stumbled on my crutches, staring like a schoolboy.
The little beauty was decked out in another tiny dress, bright-orange this time. Her curvy, sunkissed legs showcased to perfection, her hands clutching a newspaper. P.J. was already on site, blabbing away at volume eleven.
Jerking to a halt, I stiffened (everywhere), blood pounding in my veins.
Right off the bat, I couldn’t decide which was finer—that golden scrap of nothingness the witch had rocked last night with its hem practically kissing her pussy, or the tissue-thin number she had on now.
Okay, the gold. But it was close, damn close.
Other men in the lobby were looking at Iris, too. Lots of other men. Assholes strolling by real slow, pausing as they pretended to check their phones or watches. Worst actors in the freaking universe, the lot of ʼem.
My fists clenched around puny wooden handles as a black haze descended.
Christ, how fucking obvious can you get?
Instantly, I wanted to pluck a dozen pervy eyeballs out of half a dozen heads with flaming hot pincers. Choke the life out of those slow-moving fuckers with my bare hands. Kind of impossible with the crutches, I know.
Okay, how about using the things as a pair of bludgeons, instead? That would work.
This alien possessiveness left me baffled and edgy.
What the fuck… Jealousy? I reckoned it must be, stifling a bitter laugh as I faced facts.
Jesus. No wonder dudes go off the deep end with this evil green monster shit.
Crap fucking sucks! Want It Wicked