Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
While I answered his questions, he continued eating the hot dog. Not savoring it the way I loved to do. He was just eating it all sexy, caveman-like.
“Why am I here?” I asked him, trying not to show how freaking terrified I was.
The one thing I had learned on all those crime shows was not to let them see you scared. Keep your head on straight. Remain calm. I could think of a way out of here. I needed clues as to where I was.
He polished off the last of his snack and wadded the wrapping up in a ball, then tossed it to the ground, letting it roll over toward me. I wanted to grab it and lick whatever condiments were left, but I wasn’t about to let him see me stoop that low.
“Because your brother stole from me and my family. So, we stole from him,” he replied with a tilt of his head in my direction before reaching into the bag and pulling out a large bottle of water.
He smirked at me as I watched him open it and take a long pull. More throat action that transfixed me momentarily before I comprehended what he had just said.
“Perry?” I asked incredulously. “My brother, Perry?”
He had the wrong person. I wanted to sigh in relief. Perry didn’t steal. He was the most honest, trustworthy person I knew.
“Yep,” he drawled, his tongue flicking the metal bar pierced through it against the inside of his mouth. He pulled out another foil-wrapped item from the bag. This one was too large to be a hot dog. “Perry Gerard. Your only family member. Younger brother. CEO of Gerard Software and Apps. Also mastermind artist behind the best counterfeit US currency in circulation.”
A laugh bubbled out of me as I stared at him. He opened the item in his hand, and a pizza pretzel appeared. He raised his eyebrows at me.
“You think that’s funny?” he asked, his tone a deadly warning.
I didn’t care. He was so wrong. Perry did not have anything to do with counterfeit money. He feared getting a parking ticket. He paid more taxes to the IRS than necessary. The man was a saint.
“I think you have him confused with someone else. Perry is”—I shrugged—“well, a nerd. A law-abiding, talented, computer-knowledgeable Einstein. He is so scared of doing something wrong that he goes out of his way to do the right thing. In a very annoying way sometimes. Like my birthday. He couldn’t take me on a trip he had planned to take me on, although I hadn’t asked to go. It had all been his grand idea. Anyway, he deposited the money into my account, then went silent on me. He changed his phone number. When he sees I have spent the stupid money, he will call me, give me his new number, and ask if I am free for lunch.” I let out a soft laugh and held up my hands, palms up, and shrugged. “Salt-of-the-earth kinda good.”
Oz continued to eat. He was on his third bite of the pretzel pizza, and my stomach rumbled. I was so hungry, and I could smell that from here. As soon as he let me out of here, I was going to Sam’s to buy five of each!
“Perry is a criminal, and if we don’t kill him, the Feds will lock him up for many years. He’s been making counterfeit dollars. Really fucking excellent ones. The kind that those nifty little markers can’t even detect. So good that it went unnoticed by us for six months. He was able to pay his gambling debts to me, then won some back until he had run over four million of his fake bills through us and gotten clean ones back in return. And he didn’t change his number to hide from you. He’s hiding from us. From me. But”—Oz wadded up his trash again and tossed it right at me—“I think you know all that.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and glared at me. “You see, darlin’, it takes more than an angel face like that one you have and a sexy body with all the right curves to get into my head. I’ve fucked lots of hot pieces of ass. I’ve fucked one in the ass while a friend was taking her in the cunt. A sweet little thing like you, who teaches second graders at a Christian school, doesn’t really do it for me. You can either cut the shit and tell me where to find your brother or you will stay here.” He paused, and his gaze swung over the area, then back to me. “In this basement. Without food. One small water bottle a day.” He pointed over to a dark corner. “That five-gallon bucket over there is for you to piss and shit in until he comes out of hiding to find you. Your phone is upstairs, charging. I want him to track it. I’m waiting. Because I’m not the fucking Feds.” He stood up, taking his bottle of water with him.