Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 109286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
“Just a way to tighten the socks around your ankles,” I explain. When she doesn’t move, I take this as assent and tighten the zip tie.
She switches feet without a prompt. This ankle has the scab marks. I inspect the wound. It looks old, sore but not infected. Regan’s pretty lucky. From my position I notice handprints on her thighs and any arousal I once felt dies off quick. This girl’s been so abused, and what little humanity I have left aches for her. I’m going to kill the man who put those marks on her. Before I leave Rio, I’m hunting him down and cutting off his dick and feeding it to him, one inch at a time. I’ll take pictures and send them to Regan.
I hurry up with my cleaning of her foot and slip on the sock, securing it with another zip tie. I sneak a look at her and she’s looking half pissed off and half ashamed. I want it to be all pissed. She’s got nothing to be ashamed of. “You’ve got a pretty rocking body, Regan.”
“Fuck you,” she says. “I’ll kill you with your own gun before you get to lay a finger on me.”
We both know that she’d never be able to disarm me, but I nod as if her threat has real teeth. “I’ll never touch you unless you give me the okay.” It’s not something I’m making up for her sake. Eighteen months in and out of brothels like Gomes’s have made me never want to have sex outside of a relationship where I could be certain that the person I’m having sex with wants it a hundred percent. And given that the last eighteen months have been spent hunting and rescuing and killing people . . . well, the only relief my dick has seen is Rosie Palm. Maybe that’s why I’ve got hard-dick disease around Regan.
“Likely story,” she scoffs, and the ease at which she insults me tells me that she’s more comfortable with me than she knows or may be willing to acknowledge. It tells me she’ll follow me without much hesitation, so we head off, me in my shoes and Regan wearing my socks. It’s not ideal, but my shoes would be boats on her, and I don’t think she’s ready to be carried.
“You ever been to Rio before?” I ask as we wend our way down the hill. I figure from the increasing noise that we can find a taxi soon.
“No.” Then after a short pause she asks with incredulity, “Are you trying to make small talk with me?”
“Would you rather tell me how long you were with Gomes?”
She’s silent, so I take that as a no. When we arrive on a main drag, I’m able to hail a taxi and hold the door open for Regan. She hesitates and looks around, weighing her chances of survival in the favela. I shift slightly and pull back my jacket so she can see the butt of one of my guns. She closes her eyes in resignation and climbs in. Smart girl. She’s going to be one of those who make it. Many don’t. Their time in captivity fucks them up so bad that they fall back into the trade either because their families won’t take them in, they need to fund their newly acquired drug habit, or they don’t have any other place to go. That’s another shitty lesson I learned early on. I’m going to hold tight to this memory so that I can pull the gun away from my head the next time I see one of my failures.
“U.S. Embassy,” I bark at the driver and then settle back, resting one hand on the butt of my gun, scanning the streets for trouble as we take off. There isn’t anyone behind us, but the sense of wrongness is still dogging me.
A hand grabs at my arm and I twist around to look at Regan, who’s only inches from my body. Oh shit. The closeness is generating some warm feelings in my lower body. I wish my conscience had more control over my goddamn body. I clear my throat. “What is it?”
“You’re taking me to the embassy?” Regan’s voice is high and tremulous, either on the verge of tears or laughter. I nod cautiously. Please don’t let it be tears.
She gasps and then covers her mouth. Water begins coursing down her face, and she throws herself at me. “Thank you. Thank you,” she repeats, and I feel her soft cheek rub against my stubble-filled one. Vaguely I wonder if I’m scratching her with my facial hair, but mostly I’m wondering where I should put my hands when her supermodel body is pressed against me. Her tits are burning a hole in my chest, and over her shoulder I can see her fine ass waving in the air. I catch the cabdriver looking in his rearview mirror, and I push Regan aside. He doesn’t need to see her ass.