❝You think we're going to live happily ever after? Newsflash: I'm not a fucking princess, you're no prince and this fucked up thing between us is not a fairy tale.❞
Ian raises one perfectly arched eyebrow, unfazed by my outburst. ❝Fairy tales can be...
Some women have kissed—and some are kissing—a lot of frogs, even though the very first man that they have each kissed was and is still a prince. —Mokokoma Mokhonoana.
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I can't help but wonder... why do I even bother with Reyna?
Or to be more specific, Reyna's 'stellar' advice?
I sigh and adjust my shades over my eyes by pushing them back against my face. The sun is particularly scorching today so my jacket is hanging around my hips, the leather sleeves tied around my waist to act like some kind of belt. My purse bangs against my hip with every step I take and I'm clutching a bottle of Sprite in my hand.
"Walk around and live life, she said. Do it like fucking Nike, she said," I murmur under my breath, wiping away some sweat from my brow. "And like a stupid follower, I obeyed."
I ditched my car for the day for the sake of being 'spontaneous', using the bus to get to my favorite part of L.A. In a way, I'm regretting it because how the actual hell do girls without cars do this? Walking everywhere, using the bus with guys that need to double check with basic personal hygiene and getting to their destination more than thirty minutes later because of the frequent stops?
I pause and look around my surroundings. I'm slowly getting to the part of town where Ian Ross' tattoo parlor is and so far, I haven't some across something that could catch my fancy... unless I count the hot guy on one of the buses that rejected me because he already has a girlfriend.
At this point, I'm willing to pay a hobo to dance with me if it'll mean that can tell Reyna that I actually walked around and did something spontaneously interesting—
My foot knocks against something on the sidewalk and my body is suddenly propelled forward. I lose my footing and let out a short shout of surprise.
...I can't believe I just tripped.
I close my eyes tightly and brace myself for impact.
...My body hits the concrete hard and the wind gets knocked out of my body. I groan and push my body up to a sitting position and wince as I see the bloodied cut on the side of my wrist.
"That's a nasty looking cut," a male voice says, coming from behind me. I snap my gaze away from the bleeding wound and turn my head to look at the owner of the voice.
He's tall enough, toffee skinned and black haired. His green eyes twinkle and he offers me a hand to grab onto.
I scowl down at it and slap it away before getting up on my own. "Nice of you to notice," I basically spit. I'm angry and yes, with good reason. I just got myself a bloody injury that will no doubt leave a fucking scar because I tend to pick on scabs.
