| BOOK SIX | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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If someone had told me that I would be off my rocker by six o'clock in the evening, I would have laughed in said person's face.
On a normal day, I am quite literally immune to drugs and alcohol. But tonight, when under the influence of superabundant cannabis and pleasingly rich whiskey, I am uncharacteristically stoned, unsurprisingly inebriated and questionably unstable.
I cannot string a coherent sentence together in my head, never mind out loud, to engage in conversation with the other loquacious halfwits in the room.
"Crazy Little Thing Called Love" by Queen is on in the background. In my professional opinion, Mercury's tribute to musical heroes outshone the six-minute suite of Bohemian Rhapsody. Jace can argue the matter until he is bent out of shape and offended beyond belief, but we both know I am right. I am never wrong.
My feet alternately tapped the wooden headboard along to the catchy beat of the acoustic-electric guitar and the unforgettable lyrics of rock music.
I had chills as a consequence of heightened emotions and semi-nakedness.
Whoever thought it would be sensible to strip down into underwear deserved to be shot (Mary and Patty, the instigators of nudism, in case you were wondering).
I hate the cold, the chill in the room, and the goosebumps on my skin. I should go for a hot shower, change into warm, comfortable clothing and take advantage of the venue's inadequate facilities.
A game of late-night tennis surpassed heavy sedation.
Roach to my lips, I toked a long, mind-numbing drag of the blunt and dropped my arm to the side of the bed idly as smoke crawled to the back of my throat, to the convoluted gorge of logicality versus illogicality. "I am fucking flying."
"Aw, stop!" Mary laughed like a raging hyena, the loud, sharp, hysterical shrill too much for my sensitive ears. "Why am I crying?"
"Pseudobulbar affect." Josh, topless, sockless and pie-eyed, is stretched like a dead animal on the bed next to me. "You cackle so much you cry. It's called a giggle fit. That would be your third outburst of nonsensical laughter in the last ten minutes. I should know. I have been counting dedicatedly."
A host of desirable antidepressants was on the wish list. I might be dopier than usual, but the thrumming sensation of Kush in my veins felt too good to ignore. I pray euphoria can last until the end of time.
My eyebrows incurved.
How is intoxication responsible? A paralytic state of drunk, drugged and disorderly is not sensible but insensible, the most outrageous nonsense for a man who should always be alert and on guard.
"What did you do to me?" If I do not shake it off soon, I will have to crawl into the other bedroom and reacquaint myself with my old friend Charlie. I know he is missing me. "Those sly bitches slipped something in my drink."
