Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
When he steps to the side, permitting me entrance to the foyer of my building, I make a beeline for Octavia. “What’s going on? Are you hurt?” Forgetting that I’m clutching a greasy bag of burgers, I pull her to within an arm’s length of me then drag my eyes down her shuddering frame.
I sigh when I notice she is void of a single mark or scratch, but it feels like a dick move when my eyes snap to the patrol car Jess is sitting in. “Is Jess all right?”
“Uh…” Octavia’s pause for contemplation kills me. “Yeah. I think so. He was a little rough, but he barely got a look in.”
“He?” When she nods, I ask, “Who?”
My fingers jab through the takeout bag when she nudges her head to the right. Warren is here as Jess insinuated earlier today. Except he’s not sporting a bumped noggin from hiding under Jess’s bed. He looks like someone used his face as a punching bag—for the second time.
I can’t hold back my smirk, so I set it free for half a second before returning my focus to the task at hand. “Why is Warren here, and why is he in the back of a police cruiser?”
Confusion fetters Octavia’s features. “How do you know his name?”
“He… uh…” I don’t stutter when I lie. I just need to work on the deliverance of my lies. They always come out a little choppy. “An officer said his name when I came home.”
“From the gym with a bag of greasy food? Right.” She doesn’t wait for me to hand her another lie. She simply rolls her eyes, asks the officer when she can collect her cell from evidence, then slowly trudges to the stairs when Jess and Warren’s cruisers exit the alleyway.
I won’t lie. My feet don’t know which way to race. Do they head for Octavia, who looks emotionally drained yet physically uninjured? Or should they follow Jess’s patrol car disappearing over the horizon?
Desperate to keep both options open, I ask the officer Octavia was liaising with where they’re taking Jess.
“The West Precinct. If you can’t collect her after she’s given her statement, one of the officers will bring her home.”
“She isn’t under arrest?”
What? You didn’t see what I saw. It is clear Jess had Warren over the barrel, and you could bounce a nickel off my dick when it dawns on me how well she protected herself.
“No, she isn’t under arrest.” The officer’s breathy chuckle exposes he too is aroused by the idea of watching Jess go to town on Warren’s face with her fists. “And although we have enough evidence from the footage your friend recorded to prosecute without testimony, sworn statements have a way of getting perps to fold faster.”
When he twists the screen of Octavia’s cell phone around to face me, my heart rate kicks up a gear. The marks on Warren’s face and the shattered ceramic scattered on the floor between Jess and Octavia expose Octavia missed the start of Jess’s exchange with Warren, but she caught the most vital parts—Warren’s confession to a crime.
“I’ve never liked the guy,” the young officer announces while aimlessly peering in the direction Warren’s cruiser went. “Now I know why.” He shifts on his feet to face me. “Enjoy the rest of your night. Looks like your set for a big one.”
I awkwardly laugh when he nudges his head to the bag of food I’m clutching. “Yeah. Was.”
Either uncaring about my cryptic comment or eager to watch Warren be given his rights, he jerks up his chin before heading for a motorbike parked a couple of spots up from our apartment building. It isn’t the big Fat Boy custom Harleys some of my friends ride. It is a police cruiser for one.
I wait for him to throw on his helmet, kick up the kickstand, then merge into the practically nonexistent traffic before climbing the stairs two at a time.
I almost face plant when I miss the step that leads to Jess’s floor. Her apartment door is open, and the lights are on.
“Fuckin’ hell,” I curse to myself when my endeavor to flick off the lights has me stumbling onto a mess. And no, I’m not talking about the shattered vase strewn across the hallway floor. I’m referencing Octavia, who is bobbed down low, gathering up the shards with bare hands. She appears on the verge of sobbing, and her hands are rattling so much she drops more pieces of ceramic than she collects.
“Leave it. I’ll do it.”
“It’s fine. I broke it, so I should clean it.” She hisses out her last word like a snake when a sharp edge of the demolished vase cuts her pinkie. “Goddammit!”
I hate that word, and any word that has ‘God’ associated with it, but Octavia is shaking too much to notice my balk when I remove the debris from her hands and guide her to a standing position.