Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 47

Chapter 47

Tuesday morning comes

like a sucker punch to the face, and I wake up groggy, with a dry throat, and my heart stubbornly still heavy.

After a couple of minutes of staring up at the ceiling unseeingly, contemplating emigration, I get up sluggishly, shuffle downstairs in my bunny slippers and ‘Books are my Therapy‘ hoodie, pour myself the most aggressive cup of coffee known to mankind, and flop onto the couch

The house is too quiet again, and too still around me…

I sip my coffee and stare at my phone for a long moment. Long enough to realize I’m either about to make the best decision of my life or the worst mistake of my entire existence. “Just look, I mutter to myself, opening my browser before I can talk myself out of it. “It’s just…curiosity, and totally innocent. Like a background check, or a civic duty.”

My fingers hover above the keyboard briefly before typing: Thane Draeven.

The search results load within a fraction of a second, like they’ve been personally waiting for me.

First hit: Draeven Biotech – CEO and Founder.

Second hit: Forbes: “The Enigma Behind the Empire.”

Third hit: A glossy photo of him in a tuxedo, looking like he walked off the cover of some ‘Sexiest Men Alive That are Probably Evil‘ magazine.

Holy shit.

Scrolling faster, my stomach sinks with each result. There are office numbers, corporate addresses, various headshots, a shit ton of academic achievements, and even interview snippets. In other words, an entire digital footprint on the man I can’t seem to forget.

He’s not just rich. He’s stupid, filthy rich. He could probably buy a galaxy, and still have enough money left to live the rest of his days in comfortable grumpiness. He’s also ridiculously, frustratingly, 1–can’t–stop–thinking–about–him hot.

I find the Draeven Biotech main office number almost immediately on their company website. I even save it under ‘Thane: Doom Daddy‘ because emotional maturity is clearly for people who get a full night’s rest

But when it comes to actually calling the number? My thumb hovers over the dial button. Then it hovers some more, shakes a little, and then…

I chuck my phone down on the coffee table like it’s a cobra that has just bitten me.

“Get a grip, Harley,” 1 growl to myself, dragging both hands down my face. “You’re not about to cold–call a billionaire because you miss his face. You’re not char girl.” Except, maybe…I am.

Before I can spiral further into my ridiculousness, I head upstairs, get semi–dressed, grabimy keys, and head to the bookstore, hoping work will keep my thoughts from meandering towards he who shall not be named.

The bookstore bell above the front door jingles, causing me to glance at the clock as I sit behind my desk, trying to make heads or tails of the gobbledygook that is this week’s financials. Whoever’s here is ten minutes too early for our normal opening time.

Gemma is already behind the counter, re–stocking gift bags and humming loudly at the morning–shift playlist I let her pick. (It’s all ‘80s Hair Bands and revenge anthems this week. Fitting.)

I head toward the door, mentally preparing my best ‘We’re not open yet, please come back later face…and freeze.

Because standing there, looking like a raccoon who got into a makeup aisle brawl, is Steven. Complete with greasy hair that would give a porcupine a run for its money, wrinkled khakis, and I’m assuming yesterday’s shirt sporting various suspicious–looking stains.

“Harley,” he says, his voice all fake–humble, and his hands shoved into his pockets. “I just want to talk, babe.”

Before I can open my mouth, Gemma beats me to it, her voice all sugary–sweet poison as it drifts towards us as we stand near the front door, “She’s busy. Try growing a conscience and come back in your next lifetime.”

Steven, predictable as always, puffs up like a constipated pigeon. His face mottles red as he glares at Gemma for a few seconds, then turns that furious look on me. “You owe me a chance to explain!” he spits venomously at me.

“Owe you?” I ask, in a deceptively light and calm voice, “Was that in the fine print somewhere? Right after the part where you let a girl half your age fuck your ass with a dildo while you’re wearing bunny cars?”

Gemma lets out an explosive snort behind me that she doesn’t even try to hide. Through the half–open front door he’s keeping propped open with the tip of his scuffed loafer, the two elderly ladies waiting on the sidewalk for the bus look up like they just got front–row seats to WrestleMania.

Steven gapes at me, wounded indignation slathered all over his face, his eyes as big as ice–hockey pucks, unable insult me some more.

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