Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 42

I sleep like shit.

I toss, and turn, and fluff my pillow countless times. I kick off the covers, then I pull them back on. I rinse and repeat this routine until sometime around four a.m., when my brain finally short–circuits from sheer exhaustion and drags me into the kind of sleep that feels less like rest and more like slipping into a coma.

When my alarm blares at seven, it feels personal and vindictive. I groan into my pillow, slap the clock like it owes me money, and peel myself out of bed one miserable inch at a time. Every muscle aches, and my brain feels beaten and bruised. My heart…well, it’s doing that annoying thing where it pretends nothing’s wrong while it secretly bleeds out behind my ribs.

1 shuffle to the bathroom like a depressed penguin, brush my teeth without looking in the mirror (because no one needs to see this wreckage at dawn), and throw on black leggings, a baggy hoodie that reads ‘Bookmarks are for Quitters, and my favorite pair of sneakers.

No makeup gets slapped on. No real effort is made with my hair. And no fucks are given about my overall appearance.

Next stop…coffee. I need coffee like I need oxygen

right now.

1

By the time I make it to the bookstore, what feels like days later, I’m running thirty minutes late. Gemma is already behind the front counter, her arms crossed, her blood–red mouth pinched in a way that says she’s ready to throw hands with the universe–and maybe with me, too, by the looks of it. The second I walk in, she pins me with a look.

“Rough weekend?” she asks, like a shark circling blood–infested waters.

1 grunt, waving vaguely at the chaos around us, which was most definitely not here when I left on Friday afternoon. The register’s jammed, again, Two stacks of books have toppled over near the ‘New Arrivals‘ table. A delivery box of romance novels sits abandoned in the middle of the aisle leading to my office, like someone dropped it mid–heart attack. Kylie is nowhere to be seen, and I hope to all things holy that she has enough brain cells she can rub together to realize she’s fired.

“Coffee first. Then judgment, 1 mutter, making a beeline for the staffroom in the back.

To her credit, Gemma lets me chug half a mug before she follows. And when she eventually does? Oh, she comes in swinging like a professional

MLB hitter.

“So,” she says, plopping into the armchair across from me, resting her elbows on her knees, “tell me everything–spare no horrific detail. I want all the blood, tears, and catastrophic stupidity.”

I sigi: heavily, realizing there’s no getting out of this. But no way in hell am I telling her about Thane.

That’s mine. It’s…too fragile. Too important. Something about our encounter feels sacred in a way even I can’t explain just yet.

So instead, I give her the train wreck she’s asking for.

“You remember Steven?” I start dryly, taking another sip of my coffee.

Gemma’s mouth twists like she’s sucked on a lemon. “The human loaf of soggy bread? Hard to forget that useless excuse of a human being.”

“Well, Friday night, I walked into his apartment and caught him in a questionable position with our co–worker. Or ex–co–worker, I should say.” Her eyebrows shoot up, a retort on her lips, but I raise a hand to stop her. “Wait. It gets better. They weren’t just screwing. Kylie was fucking his ass with a dildo while they were in the 69 position.” Gemma’s jaw drops. “With a green monstrosity roughly the size of a soda can,” I add helpfully. “Oh, and he was wearing red bunny cars and a dog collar.”

Gemma claps a hand over her mouth, but a cackle still manages to escape through her fingers.

“And then,” I say, lifting a finger like I’m listing off menu specials, “I noticed the cock cage he had locked onto his sad, flaccid dick.” By now, tears are streaming down Gemma’s face as she’s hunched over in her chair, She waves her hands in surrender, gasping for air between peals of laughter.

“Anyway,” I say, getting up to dump the last of my cold coffee in the sink, “I took my shoes, tossed his spare key on his kitchen counter, and got the hell out of dodge. After that, I thought I was forever done with his ass, but he had the sheer gall to show up at my house on Saturday.”

Gemma finally recovers enough to ask, “Wait, wait–what do you mean he showed up at your place?”

“Oh, he did.” I lean against the counter and cross my arms. “Showed up at my door with a bullshit excuse about how the whole thing was actually ‘for us because he wanted to be better for me.”

Gemma stares at me like 1 just sprouted a second head.

“Apparently,” I continue deadpan, “letting another woman fuck you in the ass with a dildo while you eat her pussy out, is the new love language

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