Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
“I’ll find my own way.” I wave him off.
“Get up.”
“No.”
“Get up, Mayve,” he growls.
I pick up my drink and put it to my lips. “No,” I say calmly.
He huffs, then turns as if he’s going to walk off, but before he does, he quickly reaches out and grabs me by the leg, pulling me from the booth. A small scream leaves my lips as he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder.
“Sir, I don’t think she wants to go with you,” a man says, and I can see him following behind us. Kenzo turns toward the man, and I hear the click of a gun.
“Sorry,” the man squeaks, then I hear running.
“Did you just point your gun at the waiter?”
He wastes no time setting me on the back of his bike. “Yes,” he grumbles.
“You’re a real dick.”
A “Ha” is all I get back in return as he repeats the process of throwing his jacket over my legs and pulling me closer. I hold on for the sole reason I don’t want to die today as he speeds off down the street.
As soon as we arrive at my apartment, I climb off the bike without his help and almost trip over my heels as I hurry up the stairs. But he doesn’t wait for me or come after me, taking off on the bike as soon as my door is open.
Asshole.
Collapsing on my couch, I look down at my legs, thinking they look good tonight in my heels. I wonder…
Opening my phone, I create an account on Instagram.
I don’t have social media, but my work has Instagram and all the girls talk about it, and another platform called TikTok. TikTok seems like too much work for me, and taking and uploading photographs is something I can handle. I smile when I snap an image of how my heels accentuate my legs. If I didn’t know, I would never guess those legs are mine.
Maybe it’s the alcohol—or not—but my confidence is kicking in. And I like it.
Biting my lip, I try to think of a caption. I was told hashtags work as well. Finding a few work colleagues, I tag them, then caption my photograph “Working on my best self” and add a few hashtags. I scroll for what seems like hours before I get my first notification, and I read the comment a few times.
“Delete this. Now.” I click on the profile to see it’s also a new one. There are no followers and only following one person—me.
It couldn’t be?
No way.
But then again, I wouldn’t put it past him.
I take another photograph, this time hiking my dress up a little higher but not showing too much, and post it with the caption, “Confused? Well, let me set you straight.”
I put my phone down, strip out of my heels, and dress. I jump into the shower and quickly wash myself before I get back out. It’s late, and my eyes are heavy. I want to sleep. Reaching for my phone to charge it for the night, I see a few notifications on the screen. When I click on one, I notice my Instagram is gone. I go to my emails and see it’s been deactivated.
What the hell?
What is happening?
Is this how this app works?
I try to make another account, and when I do, I post the same images again with the same captions. And put my phone on to charge before I pass out.
Never been one of those people whose first thing they do when they wake up is check their phone, but that’s precisely what I just did. I see a few notifications of some likes and comments, but when I click the app, it comes up with an error.
Again.
My account was disabled.
Am I being hacked?
Or maybe I’m just not meant to be on there.
Huffing, I get up and make myself a coffee. A knock sounds on my door as I wait for the pot to brew. Without thinking, I walk over and answer.
Kenzo stands there, looking tired.
“Umm… Are you lost?” I ask, confused.
He steps inside and almost falls over. I grab him as he drops, and I see the blood before I can say or do anything else.
Well, fuck.
He’s on top of me, both of us having passed out.
My head hurts, and I need to move.
Just don’t look at his arm.
Don’t look at his arm.
I keep repeating the words to myself, hoping to stay alert this time. I reach into his pocket and pull out his phone. It has face ID, so I turn his head slightly to see if I can unlock the phone. As soon as it clicks, I head to his call history and press a name that appears often in the list. It rings once before I get a grumbled, “What?” from the other end of the line.