Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
His other hand covers my mouth before I can yell for help.
I squirm and try to scream behind his hand, but I can’t do either. And the harder I try to free myself, the firmer his grip gets. And it’s impossible to breathe.
“Calm the fuck down,” he grits between clenched teeth. “You need to listen carefully. If someone burns down your house, it’s time to get out of town.”
My fight dies like my brother, his wife, their son, their belongings, and their house. It feels like their entire existence has been erased from history.
I don’t fight. I don’t try to scream. I wait while my mind spins. But the anger doesn’t go away. It multiplies.
If Jack didn’t set the house on fire, she did.
CHAPTER TEN
JACKSON
There’s always a snag, but Jackson thought this time would be different.
Relocate.
Find the target.
Surveillance to confirm Archer Sanford is the last target.
Take him out.
Go home.
Fucking retire …
Every target has a life—a shit fest—that would distract less seasoned assassins. An affair. A secret baby. A weird porn fetish. Drugs. You name it.
Archer Sanford has his fair share. A whore for a wife. A fucked-up daughter. A string of mistresses. A nephew running for public office in Massachusetts who has a wife and a male fuck buddy on the side.
Jackson couldn’t care less. He’s not into judging them; he’s just here to eliminate his problem.
But now there’s a limp woman on his floor with her problems scattered at his feet. He knows he should pick her up, deposit her on Eloise’s porch, and wipe his hands from the situation.
“Go home.” He releases her and runs his hands through his hair before lacing his fingers behind his head, tugging and pulling against the pent-up tension.
“She did it,” Frankie whispers, climbing to her hands and knees.
Jackson doesn’t care. It’s not his problem.
“I’m going to fucking kill her,” she seethes while standing and rubbing her wrists.
He feels it’s unlikely that a professor of music theory possesses the emotional detachment to kill someone in cold blood. But Frankie has a look in her eyes that Jackson has seen in his sister’s—who has taken a few lives over the years.
Jackson picks up the crowbar. “Fuck,” he mumbles. “I don’t want to know. I just … don’t want to know.” He returns it to the hook on the wall, unable to look at his poor piano. “I Don’t. Want. To. Know.” Scrubbing his hands over his face, he turns and lets them flop to his sides with a deep sigh. He hates this feeling of knowing he’s about to cave. “Who are you going to kill? And why? And just…” pinching his eyes shut, he shakes his head “…tell me everything. I’ll take care of it. You just go home.”
“Take care of it? You don’t even know what it is. You just want to get rid of me.” She balls her hands into tight fists. “And I don’t understand what’s bugging you about my presence. You have no issue eyeing me like a piece of meat. You invade my space. You bully me. You—”
“Bully you?” Jackson chuckles. “Oh, Francesca, you have no idea what bullying is if you think I’m bullying you.”
“You put me in a chokehold and told me to go home. And…” she points to the floor, “…you pinned me to the ground!”
“You have three years of self-defense. You threatened to put me on my back. And you punched me. Then you took a fucking crowbar to my piano!” He risks a glance at his baby and winces. “It’s called self-defense, Sweetheart.”
“I’m not your sweetheart.” Her pounding feet eat up the distance between them, and she jabs a finger into his chest.
Jackson has patience for days—years. He’s had militant control over his emotions and timing with Archer Sanford. He’s dealt with his sister trying to backseat drive his plans from the other side of the country. He misses his family so much that it’s hard to breathe some days. But Francesca Holter has another thing coming if she thinks she’s going to fuck up his plans while smacking him around one minute and playing the victim the next.
Hell no.
He cuffs her wrist, digging her finger out of his chest and walking her backward until the back of the sofa stops her retreat. Her hands fly to the side, gripping the worn leather to steady herself.
Eyes wide. Lips parted.
“I’ll scream,” she whispers.
Jackson’s lips twitch while his fingertips skate up her bare arms. “I don’t doubt that.”
“W-what are you…” With each labored breath, her words stumble across her lips “…doing?”
His hands cup her neck. It’s gentle and reverent.
Frankie’s eyes drift shut.
The pad of his thumb traces her jaw to the corner of her mouth.
It hurts him to touch her.
It hurts him not to touch her.
And he needs her to go home and never look back, but he needs something else too—maybe even more.