Lance tucked his hands firmly into the pockets of muscled arm and flexed. The fabric of the dark shirt stretched with his movements and he rolled his eyes behind the pair of shades that hid what could be described as thinly vield disgust. His mood was dark, his thoughts even murkier, and every passing minute the urge to sulk became stronger.
Is this longest escalator ride I’ve ever been on? Easily. I mean really, how fucking long does it take for this stupid hunk of gyrating metal to get from one floor to the next? How long does it take to carry one human body from level to another? I should have taken the stairs. Matter of fact, jumping from the balcony would have sufficed. Maybe I'd break my leg and save myself some agony. Maybe my eardrums would pop from the long drop and everything would be silent for one fucking minute. How long am I going to have to sit here and listen to this bullshit? How long, when all I want to do was turn around and punch Ansen in the throat?
Don’t turn around Lance…don’t turn around or you’re really going to do it. You’re going to take that scarf and you’re going to pull until…
“…And THEN in this completely insane twist that nobody was even expecting, and I’m sure the author probably jotted it down in the liner notes and I can imagine how it spawned into this THING so massive that she couldn’t HELP but write it, the protagonist, that guy with the limp? He ends up being the only one that can save them. The entire village. It’s heart-warming in a “who the hell would have expected that” kind of way without being overly cheesey.” Amerie jittered, her hands clenching the ends of her shirt in excitment. She smiled as the man in front of her seemed to share her excitement, watching her head nod sagely at Amerie's words.
Lance figured if he clenched his jaw any tighter he was going to break a tooth. And the stylist team would be PISSED. Problem was, he didn’t give a fuck.
Books. Books. Books. I can read too, you know, Amerie. I read. I read all the damn time. I read everything. Complicated metaphors and alliteration. I get all of that. YOU NEVER ask me about what I’m reading, you never seem that excited about books when I ask you about them. But you’re here, on this stupid THING that won’t move any damn faster, about to bust an artery telling him about your stupid books. Ansen's an idiot. I hope his brain explodes as you try to tell him about your precious theories and intricate subplots. I hope it blows the hell up. He huffed indignantly. Call him honey, again, Amerie. I dare you.
Ansen reached out to grab his phone, punching the digits wildly. “That sounds fantastic, Amerie! Let me borrow it when we get back? Here type the title into my phone. We can go to park and read it or something like that, eh? It’ll be fun! I miss you.”
Alone in a park? Yeah, right, Ansen. Not while I'm around.
