Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 72340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
“Shut your mouth!” he roars, his grip tightening as he pulls me up the steps to my home. The front door is kicked in, hanging on one hinge.
As we round the corner through the kitchen, my mouth almost falls open. I stare in disbelief at the scene in front of me: appliances ripped apart, cupboard doors hanging loosely on their hinges, food and other items strewn haphazardly around the usually immaculate room.
It looks like a tornado has gone straight through the house. Pushing me forward, the man and I come to a halt just on the edge of entering the living room. My insides twist when I hear my father’s voice and see the puddle of blood on the floor.
Please, tell me this is not real. Please. I want to cry out, begging, and pleading.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t have a choice, Amara!” my father chokes out when he sees me.
There is a man holding him in place in one of the wooden dining room chairs. Bile rises in my throat as I take in his swollen face, the blood dripping from his lips, and the bruises that are already forming around his eyes and on his cheeks.
His hands are tied securely to the chair, his wrists bleeding. I desperately want to go to him, and comfort him, protect him from what is happening.
Underneath all the injuries, my dad looks like he hasn’t shaved, showered, or changed his clothes for quite some time. Have these men been here, keeping him prisoner?
The man sitting in that chair is just the shell of my father. The man before me is worn out, broken, and hopeless.
“Everyone has a choice, John,” a deep, rich voice chides from somewhere. I look up as the man behind the mystery voice descends the stairs, his eyes landing on me.
There is an evil coldness in his stare that robs the air from my lungs. His hair is dark and styled in a way that says he doesn’t give two fucks about what anyone thinks. He wears a suit that looks like it cost more than the farmhouse. His chin is sharp and held high as if he believes he is above everyone else.
If I had to describe him in one word, it would be predator. He reminds me of a mighty lion who thinks he is the king, and all the others have to bow to him.
“I swear to you, Amara, I didn’t have a choice,” I drag my eyes back to my father as his voice hauls me back to reality.
“Dad, what are you talking about?”
“The bills were piling up: the mortgage, utilities, insurance, tuition… There just wasn’t enough money for everything. The bank was going to foreclose on the farm, and your school was threatening to take action against you. The idea that you would have to drop out of your classes was killing me. I had to protect you and our home. I had no other choice.” The words achingly and sorrowfully flow from him. It is difficult for any man to swallow his pride and admit he has problems.
I try to let the words sink in and make sense of everything. Dad always said it was okay. He told me that we had enough to make ends meet.
“Why did you lie to me? Why didn’t you come to me for help?” I question, though, I am certain I already know the answer.
It is standing in my living room.
“I’m sorry, baby, I thought I was doing the right thing,” my father sobs.
“Well, this is heartbreaking, but we should really consider getting down to business,” the mystery man states unsympathetically. I have yet to learn the man’s name, and still, he has the audacity to sit on my father’s sofa as if he owns the place.
“Who are you?” I ask bluntly. I’m not sure if I will get a straight answer as most if not all of the men in the room look like they work for the FBI.
“Who am I?” A smile quirks at the sides of his lips, and laughter fills the room. My cheeks redden, and more anger finds its way into my already broken heart. Just as soon as the smile appears, though, it vanishes.
“I’m Lorenzo King, sweetheart, and your dear old daddy owes me a lot of fucking money.”
“No,” I deny vehemently, shaking my head as much as I can with the guy’s hand in my hair. Even though my father has already admitted to taking money from this man, I still have a hard time processing all of this.
I’m probably in denial, but that doesn’t make this any less true.
The man who escorted me into my house pulls harder on my hair, causing me to grit my teeth tightly. I’m about five seconds from turning around and slapping this guy, which would probably end badly for me.