Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43478 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43478 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Guns don’t scare me.
Fucking crazy bastards holding them do.
Like, I haven’t had a chance to brush my teeth or have some coffee. This man wants to start my morning like this? I push the door to try to shut it, but he’s already leveraged his way too far in.
Invading my space, he steps inside my door, shutting it behind him. “Grab a bag, you’re coming with me. Do as I say, you’ll get out of this in a few days fine. Don’t and I’ll end you.”
Well, if this isn’t the strangest thing ever. I get to be kidnapped with my belongings! Seriously, what is wrong with me? I can’t have anything normal. But if he’s going to give me an opportunity to talk my way out of this, I’ll damn sure try.
Stay calm, I know I have to remain casual. I’ve watched enough crime drama to know, screeching will get me nowhere except maybe dead.
“Okay buddy, not sure how much experience you have with women. I need coffee, k.”
He keeps the gun pointed to my nose, which only irritates me more with every passing second. “Then get your coffee, get a bag, then we are out of here.”
My dogs are muts, rescue muts of the nice, gentle variety. They won’t hurt a flea. Now Carrie’s dogs, even though they are weiner dogs, they bite, especially Lady! I need Lady right now to come bite this fucker’s balls and hang on. I’m sure that would knock him down. My girls, they are chilling on their dog beds and have gone back to sleep.
With a gun still aimed on me, I go to my kitchen. Alright, don’t bring a knife to a gun fight. I don’t own a gun. Bet your britches though, I will after this. My dad is an avid gun collector and he’s always telling me to get a gun. Did I listen? Nope. I dread telling him what I got myself into now. It will turn into a “Timmy talk” as mom calls it.
Think, sara, think!
Moving to the coffee maker, I pop in the pod thing and put my mug and press the button. My phone, I need to get to my phone!
“Okay, you said get a bag, how many days should I pack for?”
“What?”
I lean against my kitchen counter trying to remain relaxed even though inside my little Sara is screaming and running around like a wild banshee. My heart pounds, my head spins, and I swear if anyone was to touch me right now my entire body is clammy with sweat. I don’t know if I want to puke or kick this motherfucker in the junk.
“Okay buddy, I get that the porch light is on, but ain’t nobody been home for a good long while upstairs in that head of yours. But see, you came into my house, you have a gun pointed at my nose, and you told me to pack a bag.” His eyes lock to mine, and I can see he’s not calm anymore. He’s furious.
Time to change tactics, me showing him I’m mad is only raising his angry meter.
“Clearly, you don’t have a wife or serious girlfriend. I need to know what to pack. Short sleeve, long sleeve, and the shoes! Buddy, I can’t wear heels on a hike, so do I need boots or are my tennis shoes okay? Like help me, help you.”
“Just pack a fucking bag, bitch!”
Before I can stop myself, I move forward into his space, the gun now rests on the tip of my nose. This might very well be my undoing, but I won’t be disrespected in my own house.
“I understand you’re going through something. Clearly, you know me somehow and I’m at a disadvantage as I don’t know who the fuck you are but calling me a bitch … that isn’t going to be how this goes.” I study the gun, it’s a nine-millimeter Glock. Based on the grip he has; the clip must be full giving weight to the weapon. Yeah, motherfucker, my dad didn’t raise me to be a man’s fool. I know what you’re packing at least right this second. “Apparently, you need me for something, since you said we are taking a trip. You didn’t just shoot me and rob me, so let’s discuss what I need. Will this be a two-day trip, three day? Is it a weeklong thing?”
Obviously exasperated by me, he steps back. “Pack regular shit and let’s go.”
Behind the rim of the ski mask, he has pale skin tone, so he’s a white male. Shorter than me and I’m five feet ten inches. Mentally, I keep taking notes about the guy all while making my way to my room. I go to my closet to grab a bag. Before I can get over to my nightstand, though, he has my phone stuffing it in his back pocket. Well, there goes that idea.