–Skye: I need to start writing too. Talk to you later, girls.
After placing the phone back on the table, I took the last sip of the beer, then reached over for some crackers. But all the bags were empty. Sighing, I forced myself off the couch and started toward the kitchen.
Something moved in my peripheral vision. I turned to look and—
A snake!
I screamed and scrambled back, almost falling on my butt as my heart started pounding a billion beats per second. Cold sweat beaded on my back, and the temperature in the house seemed to plunge.
The snake lifted its head in my direction. It flicked its forked tongue. Its beady eyes shot messages in evil telepathy: I’m going to eat you, bitch!
It reared back a bit, getting ready to launch itself at me and attack. I could envision its jaw unhinging and swallowing me whole. I heard they could eat things ten times bigger than them, no problem.
My mind empty of everything except for an instinctive and blind drive for self-preservation, I ran out into the yard. Without the snake in view, my heart slowed to a mere two million beats per second. I placed my sweaty palms on my knees and thought about my options. Call 911. Or should I go to the police station?
Then I realized I was outside without anything—no keys or phone! Freakin’ great! I put both hands over my mouth and a few moments later almost blacked out, because blocking one’s airflow isn’t a good idea while hyperventilating. I started wringing them instead, which worked better. There was no way I was going back in there when a giant snake was waiting to bite my head off. That was what snakes did—I’d seen it in a B-movie once with Lucy and Skye while on a writing retreat. And the one inside had definitely made its deadly intent clear.
Since the only savior I could think of was Killian, I ran over to his house. He’d been borrowing my shower for days now. Surely I could get one phone call.
I knocked on his door and started to bite my nails as the seconds ticked by. What if he wasn’t home? A car was parked in the driveway, but he was a rock star. He might have other cars—or a Harley. What would I do if he wasn’t home?
What if the snake followed me? It could smell me, right—
I whirled around, expecting to see serpentine jaws of doom expanding to engulf me. But apparently the snake was contenting itself with taking over my house.
I turned back to the door. Now I almost wished I’d let Killian play his obnoxious drums. Then I would’ve known he was home for sure without this nauseating anxiety twisting around in my gut. I felt like throwing up.
He could be ignoring me because of the kiss. Maybe he’d been insulted that I jumped back and told him I needed to work. Most women probably melted and magically incinerated their clothes when he kissed them.
Argh. I banged on the door with all my might, as though if just I hit it hard enough, he’d appear.
“Killian!” I yelled. “Killian! Come on!”
“Okay, okay!” came a grumbly voice from the other side.
My knees shook, almost buckling with relief. I propped my hand against the wall for support.
He stuck his head out, his eyes flinty. “Yeah?” Then he took a closer look at me and straightened, concern softening his gaze. “Whoa, Emily, are you okay? You need to sit down?” He put a hand on my forehead. “You feel clammy.”
“Oh my G-G-God, I…” My teeth were chattering. Thank heavens I wasn’t alone in my fight against the snake that had taken over my home. “There’s this, this…”
“Okay, you need to sit down.”
“I need to go home.” No, that came out wrong, because I couldn’t go home on my own. “We need go home. Over there. To my house.”
He gave me a look. “Why?”
“There’s a snake inside! And I need your help.”
His eyebrows quirked briefly, then settled into a serious V. He pressed his lips together. “A snake?” he said finally.
I nodded. “A huge one. Vicious.”
“I see.” His eyebrows pulled tighter until the V was narrower and even more solemn.
Shit. He was realizing the gravity of the situation, and didn’t want to risk his life. Well…should’ve expected that. Why would he, after what had happened in the morning? Maybe I should’ve pretended to swoon at his feet, my arm wrapped around his thigh, imitating one of those clinch poses from an old-school historical romance.
“If you don’t want to go, can I borrow your phone to call 911? Maybe the cops could come and shoot it.”