Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 129571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
The Beatles said it best—all we really needed was love in the end. Not money or fame, power or sex with hundreds of women. I’d slept with enough to confirm it. I had three loyal women around me, and still I craved more.
Then Jasmine entered, and I yearned for nothing more than her gaze on me, her attention, her touch, the taste of her skin between my teeth, the lusty sound of her moans, the erotic scent of her cunt, dragging me down into an abyss of pleasure.
All we need is our love.
The Beatles changed the world, and they did it with inspirational messages, not singing about violence, guns, or sex. They represented the mood of the times. They breathed life into the idea of flower power, and all that other crap, that now would be useless against Benny.
Fuck. Maybe we need more. Benny won’t stop if I hand him a daisy. He’ll just cut my stomach up and stick the flower between my intestines. Maybe, Jasmine had a point. No. Never. She should’ve stayed.
My phone rang for the third time.
It was the same unpublished number. The only person who called me like that was Benny. Was he dialing to gloat? Or offer more threats? I didn’t know if I could trust Sophia, but I did believe her. Benny would kill me regardless of Jasmine and I being together or not. None of us could trust him to be loyal to this agreement.
“Who’s calling you?” Sophia asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should pick it up then.” She winked.
We sat in the back of her car, if the vehicle could even be called a car. It was a black Lincoln town car. It resembled a hearse. In my mind, we traveled toward a funeral. An old black man drove.
My phone rang again.
I picked it up. “Hello?”
“It’s about damn time,” Troy said.
I sighed. “I thought you were Benny.”
Troy’s voice held an edge. “Why? What’s going on with him? Sherman texted me something weird today.”
Lucy’s dead body flashed in my head. Hate dotted every one of my words. “You dropped the ball.”
“Speak English, man. What do you mean I dropped the ball?”
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Answer my question first.”
“Is Jasmine with you?” I asked.
Silence hung on the line. Unable to hear the conversation, Sophia mouthed the words, “Who is it?”
I shook my head and turned the other way. Sophia claimed to be on my side, but Jasmine kept her at a distance—Troy, too—and that meant something. I had to watch my back. Any woman that could lay down with Benny, possessed her own dangers.
“Is she with you?” I asked again. “At least answer that for me.”
“Why the hell would Jasmine be with me?” Troy’s question interrupted the paranoia swirling around in my head. “I thought you told me you could keep her safe. What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” I said. “She left this morning.”
“Why?”
“I’ve answered your questions. Where are you?”
“I’m where I’m at.” Static coursed through the line. Troy’s voice came out shaky with each word. “So Jasmine isn’t with you? Where is she?”
“Gone, and you dropped the ball.”
“What the fuck is the ball? And why are you talking in code? Someone around?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I can’t say.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have to explain myself.”
Silence came again. I could almost hear Troy thinking on the other side. That was how hard the man worked at solving puzzles. When I stood in front of him and explained a situation, he’d focus his eyes on a center point in the room and stand there deep in thought. A buzz of something would hum around him as if he burned huge amounts of energy when he spent time thinking.
Troy’s voice ended the silence. “You’re speaking in code because whoever is next to you knows me?”
I didn’t confirm or deny it. He let Lucy die. I owed him nothing.
“Who is it, Chase? Not Benny. You wouldn’t care about talking in code around him. Not Jazz. You don’t even know where she is. And on that, how the fuck did you lose my sister, man?”
I remained quiet. Any other time, I had a special love for this man. Not in a romantic way, but the sort of feelings that tragedy birthed. The sort that rose between two people that had spent several months escaping out of hell
He muttered the word, “Motherfucker.”
I rubbed my forehead. “Why did you call?”
“Wait a minute, Rich Boy. Is my sister safe?”
“That’s a tricky question.” That drunken euphoria continued to do its magic, massaging at my unease. Still, annoyance built at the back of my neck and made tense knots that couldn’t be rubbed away by soulful hands. I needed Jasmine.
Would Troy really help me get her back or get in the way? He fucking got Lucy killed.
“I have no idea where Jasmine is.” I glanced out of the limo’s window. “My understanding is that she’s probably with family.”