Page 1 of Save Me

CHAPTER ONE

Hear me out: if curses are real, I definitely have one. But don’t worry, you can’t catch it.

I don’t think.

I pace while staring at my phone, looking at the contact photo of the most delicious, grumpy man I’ve ever seen. Logan. My coworker and my most recent obsession. Ex obsession. Have I mentioned he also has a delicious dick? Long and thick and the look he gives when he’s shoving it down my throat…

Lost in thoughts about said penis, I miss the creature that comes flying at my socked feet. I trip over its soft body and try to catch myself, but then suddenly, I’m within kissing distance of the floor.

“Fluffer nutter!”

My hands and knees tingle with the sting, and I glare at what I tripped over–my pet skunk with his tail all fluffed up in the air. He looks at me with outrage, ears flattened to the side. Correction, looking at my feet.

“Princess Cupcake Sprinkles," I splutter. It’s been a while since he’s gotten the best of me.

Princess’ full name–he’s a boy, long story–gets no desired effect. Instead, he starts stamping his front feet, throwing his tail in the air, and advancing on my socked feet like they stole his afternoon celery stick.

“Hey!” Scrambling up, I scan my messy bedroom. Dirty clothes, butterfly habitat, and ah hah! Shoes!

The threats behind me continue until I slide my feet into my sneakers, hiding their offensive presence from view.

The stamping stops.

“Now.” I blow out a breath, running my hand through my hair, spotting my phone on the floor from which Logan’s picture is now staring up at me.

I turn the phone off. Because Logan is now in love with someone else. Two someones, to be exact. And I should be happy for them. I am. In a let-me-sit-them-down-and-figure-out-exactly-what-they-have-that-I-don’t kinda way. Because this always happens. I always get with someone, and then they find their forever person. It’s a curse I’m trying to shake. Surely there’s something I don’t have that everyone else does. I can just figure it out, and I’ll be golden.

That sounds crazy, I’m aware. I’m a self-aware king. But don’t worry, I don’t use my powers for good; I use them to watch my life crash and burn around me. And now you can too! Grab a bag of popcorn, the flames are great for 95% poppage.

Moving to the bathroom, I get started on brushing my teeth. I have a client coming in today who has a great tattoo idea of a goat climbing out of Satan’s asshole, and I don’t want to blow my garlic aioli french fry breath all over him. Or all over Logan and his new boyfriends.

His sexy, hot boyfriends.

No! Stop thinking about them. Distraction! As I brush, I scroll social media. A headline catches my eye: Reverend Accused of Sexual Assault. At Least 11 Minors Involved. There’s a picture of an old man that looks ugly–like a dog chewing a wasp.

My stomach twists, and suddenly the toothpaste tastes like warm, wet foam. I spit it out. If there’s one thing that chaps my ass, it’s people preying on the vulnerable–people or animals. For a second, I’m caught in that disgusting feeling, like a bug in a spider’s web. Then, with a bump and muted beep, my robot vacuum kicks on downstairs.

Must be six already. I throw a clean t-shirt on and rush down the stairs of my townhouse, passing Princess, who’s chewing on the corner of my bed.

“You lint licker! Stop! That'll make you sick!”

Princess merely gives me a look.

“Shoo.” I stomp toward him, and he fluffs his tail, giving me a stamp. But I’ve accomplished my mission; he’s no longer eating fiberglass, or whatever they make that crap out of.

Princess takes his remodeling job very seriously. I’m grateful I don’t have a landlord breathing down my neck to bitch about it, but Princess’ habit of turning non-food items into a buffet scares me. Scares me enough to do the horrendous thing I’m about to do.

“Want some dinner?”

Princess’ response is a reckless weave through my legs as I enter the kitchen and a scrabbling at my knees as I pull out his prepared meal of spaghetti with a sauce of blended carrots, pumpkin, and tomatoes on a bed of wheat noodles and chicken. Princess scarfs that down with enough enthusiasm to miss the look of apology I’m giving him. When he’s done, I grab him, and he lets out a grunt of argument. But when he sees that we’re headed to the large crate, his arms and legs activate at once, swimming around trying to get traction on anything.

“I’m sorry,” I moan.

Princess starfishes, each leg out to the side, making it harder to stuff him in the door. With each attempt to spin him to his smallest side, I feel worse and worse.

“I know you hate it, but I won’t be gone long.”

‘Meeps’ of protest fill the air, and my chest gets tight. The meeps turn to grunts as I finally get him in and shut the door, locking my best friend away.