Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
It’s how she says sorry to Liana. She lets others abuse her.
I should feel like an asshole for how I’ve treated her. I think most men after hearing her confessions last night would jump at the opportunity to tell her that he’s sorry.
I’m not other men.
I’m not fucking sorry.
What I am is addicted.
I want to hurt her.
I want to taunt her about her pain while fucking her bloody.
Why?
Because it’s giving her exactly what she wants, what she needs.
She comes so fucking hard on my cock when she’s hurting the most.
It’s not my place to worry about how she copes with her fucked-up past. Just like it’s no one else’s business how I cope with mine. We aren’t special. There are more people than anyone could ever know that are struggling with battles. The level of fucked-upness doesn’t even matter.
If she puts herself in a position to be abused, how is it my place to comment? I’m not exactly the fucking poster child for positive mental health.
What’s fucked up is my demons like playing with her demons. We feed each other and that will become so fucking dangerous to both of us. Will I become her father, taking what I need when I want it? Will she become her sister, finally getting enough and plunging a knife in my chest?
My skin itches with the possibilities of finding out.
So am I the asshole for providing that to her or is the sensitive man, the one that feels bad, the asshole?
I choke down the growl at thinking of other men being inside of her.
That little hint of jealousy pisses me off. It’s another sign of her control, of the claws she has in my skin.
I hate her even more for it.
I want to punish her more.
I want more cries, more begging, more tears.
I want to leave her drained and incapable of following me.
I want her fucking gone.
Only the chatter of other patrons float around us.
She orders a cup of coffee, and those are the only words that I hear from her for the better part of an hour.
When I stand, so does she.
When I climb into my truck, so does she.
I don’t say a word.
Despite heading toward home, I know I’d never bring her there. I’m going to have to cut her loose eventually, but doing it right this very second isn’t really a concern for me.
She doesn’t attempt to turn on the radio. She doesn’t complain when I roll down the window because the scent of her skin is driving me absolutely insane. She doesn’t try to torture me with small talk like she did before. It’s as if the woman is a shell of herself, as if getting drunk and laying all her bad shit at my feet left her completely empty and she’s in no rush to get any of it back.
When I have to stop for gas, I find myself waiting to see if she’s going to get back in the truck or wander off again.
As I near Mission, Texas, the place I’ve decided to call home for now, she’s still with me, still silently riding in the passenger seat unexpectantly.
I don’t head to my house. It’s my sanctuary, and I know myself. I could bring her home, fuck her past her telling me to stop, but I’d never find the same peace there I have before. She’d ruin that for me.
Instead of telling her to get the fuck out of my truck, I end up at a local motel just as the sun is fading in the sky.
I don’t ask her to join me or offer to let her stay with me, and when I climb out of the truck, she doesn’t follow me. By the time I make it back out of the front office with my room key, she’s gone.
Without bothering to search my truck for another AirTag, I head into my room, wondering just how long it’ll take her to pop back up. I’ve thought before, more than once, that she was done with whatever sick game she’s playing with me, only for her to reappear. I know better than to think we’ve said goodbye.
I’m anxious to get back home so I can use my computer software to find my next job. I purposely keep an older phone, one without all the bells and whistles in order to prevent people from tracking me, so that means I have to be home with my state-of-the-art firewalls to use facial recognition software that helps me match missing persons with women for sale online.
I learned my lesson about using physical infiltration in a sex trafficking cell to find my client’s loved ones. Doing that landed me in El Salvador.
I guess I have Lauren to thank for forcing my hand toward more modern technology so I don’t find myself once again strapped to a wall.