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Even this mighty yoga weapon doesn’t work.
Okay. I need to be ready for the eventuality of seeing the Impaler—and I’m a mess in ways beyond foreign objects in my rear end.
I quickly change my drab casual dress for a prettier one, grab my makeup kit and a mirror, and perch on the toilet (hope springs eternal) to make myself look semi-human.
Lipstick is easy. Lashes too. But no matter how hard I work on the missing eyebrow, I fail to make it look like the sister of the other—barely a second cousin is the best I can do.
Maybe I should get rid of the remaining one right now? Problem is, I don’t own a razor, and I don’t dare play with the hair removal cream under the current circumstances. The last thing I want is to end up with bald spots on my head or hair removal cream in my butt. Or worse.
The eyebrow situation adds to my frustration.
Who does he think he is, coming here like this?
Well, I guess he thinks he’s my boss squared. Probably realizes that having the power to fire me allows him to do what he wants. Probably doesn’t like the sound of the lawsuit my parents would file if I somehow died because of the squirrel. Still—
The doorbell rings, sending my pulse through the stratosphere.
He’s here!
Even the prospect of the upcoming humiliation doesn’t loosen anything up—so much for stories of people soiling themselves out of fear. Then again, there’s also a conflicting “anus clenching in fear”—so maybe that’s what’s happening here?
My work phone rings. Then Precious joins in.
Feeling like I’m about to die, I answer.
“How are you feeling?” the Impaler asks.
I gulp. Is that genuine concern in his voice? “Never better. You didn’t need to come. I got this—”
“We’re going to the ER.” The statement is a command with no room for negotiation. “Do you need help coming out?”
Am I hearing a threat in that question? Will he break my door down if I answer the wrong thing?
Nah. His kind need to be officially invited to enter someone’s home.
I rub my burning cheeks. “I can walk.”
“See you soon then.” He hangs up.
I text Ava an update, grab both phones, shuffle over to the door, and put on a pair of sneakers.
Here goes nothing.
I open the door.
He’s here, in all his mouthwatering glory.
He meets my gaze, and something—probably shame—makes my knees go weak.
His strong hand grasps my elbow.
Electricity shoots up my arm from his touch, and I nearly stumble.
His expression changes, a scowl appearing on his face. He yells something in Russian, and a burly middle-aged dude is suddenly holding my other elbow with sausage-like fingers that are hairier than those of a sasquatch.
He came with a minion?
“Step carefully,” the Impaler instructs.
