Astrid 'Artistikem' Cruz The Last Superhero (epub)

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.Damn this man and his sweet eyes, and those lips that curve up.Get a grip, goddammit, and walk away before the moment spoils.5I'm a bird inside the cage of my car.That if birds smoke.This is my third cigarette while waiting, parked three houses down from Steven's, for it to be seven o'clock.I don't want to be early – that's desperate.I don't want to be late – that's rude.I want to be just on time.“This is crazy,” I mutter to myself.Of course it is.It's the craziest thing I've done since the time that guy my mother wanted to force me into dating invited me to some twice-removed cousin's house in The Hamptons.I'd never seen so many drugs put together or horny twenty-somethings.I stayed with the lesser crowd smoking pot and lost sight of my date until the next day when I had to drag him from under some blonde, shove him in the car, and drive him home.He was the son of this writer that was the bomb back then.The moment I hailed a taxi after leaving him sleeping inside his car in his father's driveway, I thought I should be trying to date the writer, not the writer's brat.That was three years ago.This is now.And Steven's not a writer, although he's right around the brat progenitor's age.Which translates to: old enough to be my father.“Fuck.” Flick the cigarette butt.I promised myself that would be the last one.For the night.Check the time on my phone.I've got two minutes to chew enough gum to cover it up.Two minutes to wind down from the hell the last twenty-eight hours have been.I've cleaned around the apartment and managed to conjure one month of rent.Mr.Brownstone wasn't happy.I'm only buying myself some time.His patience is running thin and so is mine.And the accountant's, who I'm starting to think enjoys waving those statements with red numbers at my face and thrusting the word ‘bankruptcy’ into every conversation.We all know the economy's shit.I read blogs and magazines, but reading doesn't do a thing to make it better.No, it makes it worse.Makes me feel worse and I don't need that right now because it's time to spit out my gum and drive up to that wall with the gate and the ivy.And the man who comes out with the leather jacket, the dark gray jeans, and the striped scarf.UNF.I reach for the passenger door and open it from the inside.“Hey,” I say.“Hi,” he says, sliding into the seat.I'm still reaching over the center console so he seizes the moment to kiss my cheek.“Got you something.” He lifts a bag made of black fabric, holding something long inside.“It's not an ever-refilling one, but it's a start.” A bottle of vodka.“Thanks.”Oh my god.I have to be more careful if he's going to take what I say so literally.Or should I?Go away, dirty thoughts and memories of books I should've never laid my hands on, much less read.Drive.Just drive.“It's been long since I got into one of these.” He looks around the car, especially the dashboard with all its meters and gauges.“A lot has changed.”“You almost destroyed my door that night.”He gives the victim a surveying glance and sees the duck tape over the cracked door panel.“I'm so sorry.”“Forget it.How do you run your errands anyway?”“I walk.” He laughs.“Strange thing to do these days when everyone seems to have a car or two.”“But a smart choice, counts as exercise.”Red light.We stop.Don't look at him like that.He looks back at me and he's grinning, his eyes glinting.It'd be very stupid of me not to guess what comes next.Green light.Keep going.He sinks into his seat and I'm suddenly afraid I'm sending smoke signals under a fire sensor.“I haven’t seen this side of the city in years,” he whispers, looking out through the windows in amusement.His arms crossed over his chest, he seems to be trying to hide inside his jacket.What if he's some madman and here I am taking him to my apartment? I should've told Daphne, told her to text me at a certain time to check if I'm still alive.“The tinted windows don’t let people see who’s inside the car.”He seems relieved by that and pulls himself up again.I'll text Daphne once we get there.We arrive and he's reluctant about coming in.I rid him of his coat and scarf and perch them on the rack.The smell of pot roast has taken over the still burning scented candles.“Nice,” he says.I can tell he likes it.I like to believe I've made it the coziest chicken coop in the city.“Make yourself comfortable while I check on the food.” I point at the living room with the sofa and the coffee table and the books and my laptop.He hands me the bottle of vodka.“I'll bring it to you.”“No.It's for you.”“Huh?”“I- I don't drink much.”Ohai, my name is Giana and I'm a highly functional alcoholic, kthxbai.“Okay.Dinner will be ready any minute now.”I gift him a smile and go hide the bottle in the kitchen.Open the oven and make sure the roast hasn't burned.It smells delicious, by the way.And is not a piece of charcoal yet.Text Daphne [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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