Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 40811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 204(@200wpm)___ 163(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 204(@200wpm)___ 163(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
I wanted to argue with him. I’d wanted Donovan dead for so long, the idea of postponing the kill even a minute longer felt almost unbearable. But Marcos was right. I wanted him dead, yes, but I also wanted him to suffer. I’d regret acting on impulse, no matter how strong that impulse was.
I took a deep breath, hoping the smoke-tinged air would somehow infuse my body with even a modicum of the calm I’d felt just moments ago. “What did you have in mind, Marcos?”
“James Donovan’s wife is dead, but he has a daughter. And you, Derek, have a very unique set of skills.”
Hmm. Well, it wasn’t the most original plan—since it was the exact same method of revenge Marcos had used on his own rival, but it was effective. Take the thing of most importance to a man and make him watch as you broke it and transformed it into a shell of what it once was.
I’d already known Donovan had a daughter. Even twelve years later, I could vaguely remember the feisty little redhead with eyes that were too big for her face and a chip on her shoulder. If there was any of that girl left in her now, she’d pose an even bigger challenge than the last slave. But there were few things in life better than a good challenge.
“You know where she is?” I asked though I was already certain he did.
Marcos nodded.
“I want to get a look at her, and then I’ll send Vito and Alejandro to pick her up.”
“I think you’re making a wise decision, my friend,” he said, patting me on the back once again.
A short flight, and an even shorter drive later, I sat in a nondescript Lexus across from a dilapidated looking park. The girl would be turning the corner onto the street any minute—like she did every day at precisely 8:45 in the morning on her way to work—according to Marcos’ carefully gathered intel.
Fuck me, I breathed, as she turned onto the street. The hair was the same—a fiery auburn that put copper redheads to shame—but everything else about her had changed. She was tall, and though the shapeless coat and clothing she wore did nothing to accentuate it, it was obvious she was slim. She moved with a kind of grace I hadn’t seen before, and the gentle sway of her hips beneath her bulky clothing had me following her every movement, like the hypnotizing swing of a pendulum.
As she came closer, I could see that her oval face had lost all traces of its childhood pudginess, and her eyes, though larger than the typical woman’s, fit into the delicate features of her face perfectly. Something about the look in her eyes though told me she was lost, not geographically, but as if part of herself was missing. She looked in-need, though nothing about her made her appear needy.
I fought the sudden urge to get out of the car. I wanted to take her back with me now. I wanted to bend her. Shape her. Make her needy for nothing but the will of her master. But I stayed where I was. The plan had been set, and I wouldn’t deviate from it in my haste to have this beauty.
She would come soon enough.
1
Scarlett
I skimmed through the photos as they came out of the film-developing-machine. I was supposed to flip through them quickly and then shove them in an envelope for our customers, but I never did that. I liked the pictures because no one ever took snapshots of the sad moments in their life. It was always the happy memories caught on camera.
I look at the photos, and I imagine what life has in store for them next. It’s silly, of course, but I’ve been told I’m a natural born storyteller. And so, I fill in the missing pieces between snapshots. Like what had happened after the Robinson’s returned from their honeymoon in Aruba—a trip that had used up nearly a dozen rolls of film? Did she quickly realize the man couldn’t screw the cap back on the toothpaste to save his life? Did he wonder how the hell the woman could possibly need three dozen pairs of shoes? I imagine their first fight came quickly—because they’re both passionate and stubborn people. In the end, though, they’ll always work it out. They aren’t perfect, and they’ll spend a lot of time-fighting, but they love each other. And so long as they never forget that, they’ll be OK.
And what about Lindsay Miller’s graduation photos? I think she’ll meet her first serious boyfriend in college. He’ll be a great guy, but after a year or two, they’ll realize they just aren’t right for each other. But they won’t part on angry terms, and they’ll even get together for coffee a couple of times after a nasty breakup or particularly bad exam. Five years later when she’s finished college and found Mr. Right, she’ll even invite her first love to her wedding, and just for a minute, both of them will wonder if they’d made a mistake breaking up.