Page 86 of Sexting His Son's Ex
Me: “Spanking doesn’t sound to bad.”
Him: “Don’t tempt me. I’ll make you count every single slap.”
Me: “You’re the one tempting me. I’m not sure what the problem is.”
Him: “I’m on my way.”
I grin, tossing my phone to side. I love that he is dropping everything because he wants me so much. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this way.
With more pep in my step, I close my eyes and spin around, stopping midway when the smell of smoke hits me in the face. Snapping my eyes open, smoke in the backroom sways and drifts in the air, almost as if it’s following a beat to the song I have on.
Turning off the speaker, I keep the scissors in my hand, stepping into the thick cloud of smoke. The air is hard to breathe, and I cough, covering my mouth and nose the best I can. My legs stop moving when I come face to face with a wall of fire roaring to the ceiling. I watch horrified, the hunger of the blaze swallows my plants and eats its way to another the wall. The heat becomes unbearable.
Sweat clings to my skin. The smoke wraps around me like a blanket, forcing me to stay warm.
I pull out of my stupor when the fire jumps onto the ceiling, embers falling down on me like snow on a cold winter day. My vision narrows as I try to see past the bright orange flickers and the thick of smoke. The backdoor is covered with fire.
Time slows as I spin on my heel and dart to the front, nearly tripping over myself. My hip catches the counter and I clutch the edge, groaning from the pain. My eyes sting from the smoke. The cloud infiltrates the front room. I can’t see anything. The heat from the fire comes closer and I turn to see it inching its way through the doorway.
I’m trapped.
I run to the front doors and unlock the deadbolt. I push and push, but they don’t open. “Come on!” I scream, tears pouring down my face.
There are chains on the handles outside with a lock clamping them together. Someone wanted this. Someone planned this.
Someone wants me dead. My first thought is Luca or Bianchi. Maybe both.
I can’t run upstairs. It’s blocked by fire.
This is my only way out.
Keeping my head down, I drop to all fours and crawl to the counter, staying low to the ground since smoke rises. Grabbing the barstool by the bottom of the leg, I drag it across the room, having to stop to catch my breath, but all I inhale is smoke.
I cough until I taste blood, my eyes pouring with tears. I continue to crawl. When I’m close enough, I use the table for leverage to lift myself to my feet. Grabbing the barstool, I lift it above my head and throw it as hard as I can against the glass.
It practically bounces and soars through the air, one of the legs smacking me on the head.
Bullet proof glass.
I never stood a chance. I lift my hand to the wound and pull it back.
So much blood.
Red covers my palm. My vision swims.
A pounding on the glass has me run towards the sound.
“Santino!” I cry out to him, shaking the doors. “I’m trapped. I can’t get out. There’s nowhere for me to go.” I scream.
He roars, yanking on the chains trapping me inside. A crowd has gathered behind him. His eyes are frantic and if I’m not mistaken, his cheeks are wet.
The fire is getting closer.
The vases explode from the heat, and the flower petals turn to ash as the fire eats them too.
“Jovie! Jovie, look at me. Look at me.”
I look at him, my fate written all my face, and my hand drops to my stomach.
