Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Just in case, I fold my hand around the pepper spray in my bag when I park. A high wall with electrified barbwire on the top surrounds the complex. Spray lights illuminate the parking and the dark corners. Being attacked by someone lurking in the bushes is a very small probability. Still, I scan the grounds and look over my shoulder.
I lived in Brixton before, a suburb a lot more dangerous than Fourways, yet I’d never been this paranoid in Brixton. This constant state of alertness is the price I pay for being kidnapped and smuggled abroad, all in the name of diamonds. Once upon a time when I was young and naïve and had dreams, I wanted a man to put a pretty ring with a shiny stone on my finger. Now I hate those stones for what they represent. Crushed dreams. Greed and ugly truths.
My steps echo on the concrete as I cross the parking lot. There are twelve units with four apartments in each. Mine is on the first level of the second unit. The fact that it’s not on the ground level makes the possibility of someone climbing through a window or the roof even more improbable.
It’d been a long day at work. I’d rushed home to get ready, putting on a blouse with wide sleeves I made from tea-stained lace with a pair of high-waist black pants fastening with buttons on the sides. Pairing it with high-heeled booties, I call it my pirate outfit. So much for making an impression. I sigh. Maybe I shouldn’t have said I’m on the rebound, but I hate being dishonest. I’ll have to tell Lina to limit her matchmaking to guys who aren’t looking for anything serious.
Who am I kidding? The idea of a man’s hands on my body repulses me. I was hoping tonight was a step in the right direction to get over my phobia of being touched, something I’ve developed since I escaped. I’m worried sex isn’t in the cards for me for the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll never be able to tolerate an intimate touch again. Maybe Maxime damaged more than my sense of safety for life.
Climbing the stairs to my unit, I pull free the elastic that ties my blond hair into a ponytail and shake out the long tresses. I use a straightener these days to get rid of my natural curls.
On the landing, I tiptoe so my neighbor doesn’t hear me. Mariska is a nice girl, but I’m not in the mood for company. I just want to wash the makeup off my face and crawl into bed. I was worried for nothing, though, because a reggae song pierced with laughter filters through her door. She’s got company. Later, I’ll have to listen to the banging of her headboard against the wall, lying awake in the dark and pondering all the ways in which I’m screwed up.
Those sleepless nights are the worst. I ache for a touch I can’t tolerate from any other man, my body heating with need at the memory of another woman’s man. I burn and cry, and eventually make myself come only to hate myself for it in the morning. Maybe I’ll take a sleeping pill tonight. I picked up a herbal remedy from a natural medicine pharmacy a while ago, but I haven’t tried it yet.
I keep my alarm remote and keys in a zip pocket of my bag that’s easily accessible so I don’t have to fish for them at the door. It’s the small security measures that make the difference. Get inside fast before someone can snatch you on the landing. After deactivating the alarm, I unlock the security gate and door, and blow out a sigh of relief when I’m inside. I lock the gate and door, then double check by testing the handles to make sure I’ve locked them. Hanging my bag on the coat stand in the entrance, I go through the door on the right to the kitchen and fill a glass with water from the tap. I take a long drink before unzipping and kicking off my booties.
The heat in the overcrowded bar left me sticky. I envision another quick, cool shower as I make my way to my room with the glass in one hand, already unbuttoning my blouse. The lamp I left on in the lounge guides my way. The radio still plays softly. I always leave on signs of life when I go out so that potential robbers would be deceived into thinking I’m home.
I enter the lounge to switch off the light and music, and then stop dead. My heart slams into my ribs. My breath catches, and the glass slips from my fingers. It shatters when it hits the tiles, water splashing over my bare feet and against the legs of my pants.