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)
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, unable to stop myself. A smile pulls at his lips, and I wonder what he thinks is so funny. My body is still shaking, my hands sweating, my breaths still harsh. I don’t find any of this fucking funny. Plus, Enzo is bleeding out next to me even as I press against the wound. Nervousness fills my belly.
“Enzo clearly has his hands full with you. You don’t seem like his type, by the way,” he says. I know I’m not Enzo’s type. He likes submissive girls who obey, know when to keep their mouth shut and don’t talk back.
“By type, you mean, he doesn’t usually go for the women that do whatever the fuck they want?” I ask, eyebrows raised. He laughs gruffly, and the tension inside the SUV eases. I’m still scared shitless, but my blood stops pounding in my ears.
“By type, I mean he generally doesn’t have a woman I can judge as his type. He doesn’t usually keep anyone longer than a night.”
“Fantastic. I’m going to end up going to jail with a mob boss who is also a manwhore, which I already kind of assumed.” Leaning over, I run a hand through my hair. My curls are everywhere, I’m sure, and I don’t even want to catch a glimpse of my face.
Laughing softly, he says, “Just try and relax. Once we get where we need to be, I’ll let you know.” I nod and return to my thoughts. All sound is non-existent in the SUV except for Enzo’s soft breathing and a small amount of radio noise.
I watch out the window, afraid that if I close my eyes, I will relive this horrid again. I killed someone. I fucking ripped him from his family and friends without even knowing him. I know nothing about him, and yet I put a bullet in his head, ending his life.
Enzo has been a douche nugget of all kinds of sorts, but I don’t want him to fucking die.
“Get some cloth and water,” Jared orders from the bedroom. I’m in the kitchen pacing like a maniac. He is just going to take the bullet out, clean it like a goddamn scraped knee, and stitch it up. Something about that doesn’t sit well with me.
Filling a small bucket with water, I bring it to him. Enzo is just starting to come around since being shot. The only words having been said from him were the ones where he told us the code to get into the house.
“Get this fucking bullet out,” he growls at Jared. He is thrashing back and forth on the bed as Jared uses a pair of tweezers to dig around in his shoulder. A hiss leaves his lips, and his eyes seek mine out.
“Whiskey…” Jared asks, pulling me from Enzo.
“Whiskey?” He didn’t ask for whiskey, did he?
“Yeah, I need it to clean the wound.” I get up, running to the kitchen again. I have no idea where the whiskey is kept here, and if it has anything to do with Enzo, it’s probably all gone.
I search the many cabinets that line the kitchen walls, only finding plates, food, and silverware. I pull on a small drawer only to discover it’s filled with guns. Then it clicks. Maybe he has some at the small bar I noticed earlier in the dining room. Closing the drawer, I run to the dining room, my feet slipping on the wood floors. My eyes search the small bar shelf from a distance. BINGO. My eyes land on the bottle of bourbon. Enzo’s favorite, I assume since it’s the only one I’ve ever seen him drink. He will hate to see this go to waste.
Hurrying back to the room, I hand the bottle to Jared. “Took you long enough…” Enzo almost screams at me. His eyes are soft, and I understand his words aren’t meant to be mean. He’s in pain.
“This is going to hurt…” Jared mumbled and then pours a liberal amount into the wound, his hands, and tweezers. Enzo lets out a loud scream, and a lot of curse words follow. Sweat forms on his brow, and he clenches his teeth. I watch as Jared digs around in his shoulder some more.
Enzo doesn’t move or make any more sounds. His face is full of agony, and I feel bad for him. Yes, I feel bad for him. I have watched this man shoot and kill people. I have felt his hands around my throat, and yet looking at him now, I feel nothing but pain for him. I know deep inside, my reaction stems from more than just a sense of compassion.
Three minutes later, Jared pulls away from Enzo, smiling. “Got it. Strong fucking little slugger,” he says, dropping the bullet into a pan I brought him.