Ave Michaels is an out-and-proud cynical romantic who never had her heart broken (considering she has to fall in love first.)
That is until, in order to get published, she has to prove she's a versatile writer by writing a romance novel.
Throw in a...
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"In Which Reality is a Delectable Case of Kism*t Bullshit"
(Pt. 3)
· · ·
2:52 PM
Encontrarse
I didn't bother to face whoever he was pointing at. My attention focused solely on the piece of intricately-carved ornament in my hand.
Tia stares at me curiously, her dark astute gaze darting from the bracelet to my stone-cold expression. "Isn't that the charm bracelet"—
"Uh-huh," I cut her off, trying not to think of the temper tantrum I threw after I thought I lost it. We had to stay an extra half an hour behind bars for that.
I release the pent-up breath I unknowingly had, clutching the bracelet to my chest in gratitude for the small remains of luck I still had.
Emile wheezes hard, his breath rattling. "Holy Haus of Gaga*, this is destiny!"
I frown, my momentary reverie cut short. "What?"
"It's him! It's really him," he squeals, jumping up and down on his seat and pointing too enthusiastically at the stage behind me like he's about to pee.
"Who's he?" Kiana asks curiously, circling her hands and putting them on her eyes like binoculars.
"The man of my walking wet dreams," Emile sighs dreamily.
"And, mine!" Jhett pipes in, hand motioning over his mouth like a jazz hand. "Without the beard, that is. But, still hot!"
He licks his lips, resembling the textbook definition of a thirsty sex-leech.
"Well, I'll be damned!" Tia exclaims, shocked that she didn't instantly recognize him."Isn't that the hitman we stalked yesterday?"
Emile grimaces, instantly protective of his quarry, and gestures at yesterday's hitman. "Are we still hanging on to that? He's obviously not a hitman."
Jhett nods, his gaze still fixated on the man. The way he stares at him has evolved into that of a devoted cult worshiper.
Curiosity getting the better of me, I turn around to see what the hype was about.
There, on the stage, tuning his guitar was the mysterious guy from earlier. I trace every muscle of his steel-corded body with strange familiarity, a sound of possessiveness rumbling in my throat.
Unaware of his captivated crowd, he strums his guitar and starts to sing in a deep raspy timbre. Just like clockwork, he becomes cocooned in his own world.
