Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
I know he’s talking about Locke, because we expect more from Locke. But the sentiment also applies to Mercer.
“I’m missing something, Travis. I can feel it. His behavior this morning. It was—odd.”
“Odd how?”
“He kept going on about how I saw him. How I saw Mercer and Locke together. In New York. Or Boston. I’m not sure. I have no idea what he was talking about, but he was really fucking stuck on it.”
“Huh.”
“Wait. Maybe he was talking about that night.”
“Which night?”
“That night when I got pregnant. What if he was talking about that? What if…” I pause, my mind racing. Mercer lied to me that night in the library. About a lot of things, but mostly about the sex. We did have sex. At least, I did. Because I walked away from that place pregnant.
“Travis?”
“Yeah?”
“Something is happening to me. I think… I think I’m crashing.”
And then…
And then…
And then Mercer is handing me a glass of champagne.
CHAPTER TWENTY – LOCKE
TWENTY YEARS AGO
He’s the kind of man I want to be.
And he’s got amazing lips. Kinda plump, but not too thick. The kind of lips that provoke fantasies of the sexual nature.
We’re not that different in the looks department. He’s got dark hair, and so do I. And from a distance, I think his eyes are brown. Mine are almost brown, with tiny bits of blue in them. So everything is tracking so far. He’s tall—again, about my height. Six foot, six-one. Somewhere around there. And we’re both young. Very young. I don’t think he’s seventeen like I am, but he’s not that much older. Maybe twenty-one. Maybe.
But these similarities all come crashing to a halt when I get to his suit.
I don’t know anything about suits. I’ve never even worn a tie, let alone owned a suit. But I’m a man. Or nearly one, anyway. And I know that this man’s suit is a symbol of money and power. Of which I have neither.
Hell, I don’t even have choices.
He approaches my table. We’re in a private room. I’ve never been in here before, but it’s not bad. There is a couch, a chair, and this table with two chairs. I’m not sitting, I’m standing. I realize that I’m not in control of this meeting, but sitting down felt like submission.
“Michael Locke, I presume,” he says, extending his hand across the table once he’s close enough. “I’m Silas Mercer.”
I don’t shake his hand. I don’t want to touch him. And besides, handshakes are a symbol. They have meaning. And power too. I don’t care how attractive this guy is, I’m not taking the bait. I’m out of juvy in two months when I turn eighteen, my debt to society paid in full. I don’t need his bait.
He waits me out. He takes four seconds to withdraw his handshake offer, then he sets a briefcase down on the table and clicks the locks open. He sits, apparently unconcerned about whether or not his seated position will convey a sense of submission to me.
Alternatively, he knows it does and that’s why he did it.
Gives me some power. Kind of builds my ego a little.
Smart. But not smart enough to trick me.
He pulls a dark-green glossy folder out of the briefcase, sets it on the table, then closes his briefcase and puts that on the floor, right next to his chair. He points to the folder. “Do you know what this is?”
“How the hell would I know what that is?”
He squints his eyes at me. “I was told you have an IQ of one eighty-five.”
“So?”
“So I’m interested in you.”
For some reason, my eyes wander down to his lips. It’s a slip-up, and I quickly correct this error and meet his gaze again.
“No,” Silas Mercer says. “Not that kind of interested.”
“That’s too bad.” My boldness is a little surprising. To him—he raises one eyebrow—and me, as well. Because I’ve never been with a man. But this one, damn. He’s quite a specimen. It’s like he got all the upgrades before birth. And he’s got a nice mouth. I take a moment to compare our mouths, but I don’t have a clear picture in my head of what mine actually looks like, so I put that aside and concentrate on surprising this man again. “I mean… I would be interested, if you were that kind of interested.”
Silas Mercer grins at me. Then he lets out a breath and leans back in his chair. “Would you mind sitting down?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to stare at those eyes of yours and I don’t want to crane my neck as I do that.”
I allow myself a tight-lipped grin. And I sit. “There. Happy?”
“Indeed.”
“What are you? British, or something?”
“No. I’m American. I just come from an old family.”
“Right.” I scoff the word out. “So why are you here?”
“I’m here for you. I have an offer.”