Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 217(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 217(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
A few days later, Jonah called me with a job offer. I knew Austin was behind it, but with no other prospects, I couldn’t drum up a reason—other than my pride—to say no. I told myself it would be temporary, just until I found something better. The morning the first direct deposit payment hit my bank account, I gave up the job search and committed to my role as front-desk girl.
I log into my computer, stifling a yawn. After gulping down a few glugs of coffee, I start replying to customer emails. I make it through half a dozen of them before I open one that tells me I’m going to Hell.
My hand tightens on the computer mouse. As obnoxious as the true-crime enthusiasts can be, they’re benign compared to the harassment I’ve received from the reverend’s parishioners.
Reverend Clyde Davis, the lecherous preacher who lured me to his lake house under the pretense of paying me for sex, had a devoted following before he went to prison. Even after he and his brother, former Tennessee Governor, Jim Davis, were found guilty of turning a blind eye to Jim’s son’s ritualistic killings, the reverend still has followers who proclaim his innocence. They can’t deny the evidence that proves Hoyt killed those girls, so they find other ways to justify the reverend’s actions. They blame the dead for being preyed upon instead of holding predators accountable. In their minds, we’re the desperate, greedy whores who court the Devil. We put ourselves at risk, ergo, we deserve whatever awful fate awaits us.
Except I’m not dead, which means they can say these things to my face instead of spitting on my grave.
Thankfully, most of the reverend’s supporters are too cowardly to approach me in public. They opt for less direct methods: hateful letters, nasty phone calls, a tidal wave of online harassment. I forward the disparaging message to Austin’s brother, Mike, one of our project managers who occasionally moonlights as tech support when the tech guys get stumped. He installed a special filter to catch threatening emails, but a few always manage to slip through.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve deleted all my social media accounts and changed my personal email address four times in the last two years. Even when I take every precaution to remain anonymous, they still somehow find me.
By lunchtime, the caffeine buzz I’ve been relying on to keep myself vertical has begun to wane. Bracing my elbow on the desk, I cradle my chin in my palm.
I’ll just rest my eyes. Just for a minute...
Two swift knocks on the desk make me jump.
“Fuck,” I blurt, before I recall where I am. Fortunately, the sympathetic smile across the desk belongs to Jeremy Getts, assistant accounting manager, and not a customer, or my boss.
“Late night out?” Jeremy asks. It’s a joke. We’ve been work acquaintances long enough for him to deduce that I don’t get out much.
“Oh, yeah. It was wild.” My eyelids feel like they’ve been swapped for sandpaper. “How long was I asleep?”
“I just got here,” he says with a shrug. “Wanna grab lunch?”
“No, thanks. I brought food with me.” While fresh air and a change of scenery wouldn’t be the worst idea, I have my reasons for not wanting to get too friendly with Jeremy.
For starters, I know he wants to fuck me. I can’t tell if that’s the extent of it, or if he’s looking for something more, but I know when a guy’s staring at my mouth, imagining how it would feel around his dick. It makes sense, I guess. Before I started working here, Jeremy was the only employee at Pope and Parkes under the age of thirty. He’s nice enough, but I have no interest in dating him—or anyone, for that matter.
The electronic entrance bell chimes. Austin’s bulk fills the doorway and my lips curve of their own accord. His gaze flickers to Jeremy as he approaches the front desk.
“You’re late,” I say to him.
His mouth slants, bordered on all sides by a dark-brown beard. One of these days, I’m going to sneak up on him and comb my fingers through it, just to see how it feels.
“I went straight to the site this morning,” Austin says. “Picked you up something on the way back.”
He places a white paper bag on my desk, and I suddenly feel as if I’ve swallowed a clutch of canaries.
“Thank you.” I tease the bag open. He’s brought me a sticky bun topped with pecans. “It looks delicious.”
“Where’s mine?” Jeremy asks with a smirk.
Austin regards him like a spider on the ceiling he’d like to squish. “Shouldn’t you be crunching numbers at your own desk?”
“I’m on my lunch break.”
Irritation radiates from Austin like an aura. I clear my throat to ease the tension. “I’ll take my break now, too.”
Foregoing last night’s leftovers, I bring my sticky bun into the office kitchen and fix myself another cup of coffee. Though he doesn’t appear to be eating, Austin claims the chair beside me, forcing Jeremy to sit on the other side of the table.