Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96714 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96714 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“You mean to you since you’re the only other person I really talk to?” She barely glances at me before turning the page. “You said I deserved everything they did to me back there, right? I didn’t feel like wasting my time telling you if you were only going to shrug it off.”
Whatever words I want to say evaporate into thin air.
Of course, then she lifts her head, staring at me with a questioning expression. “Why do you care anyway? You literally did the same to me.”
I don’t have an answer for her. Especially when I’ve done worse to her, and that’s infuriating. I’m not any better than those fuckheads. Since there’s nothing to say, I leave her to go back to her work—though I make a point of leaving the door open.
We’ll see how long it takes for her to come out. If she is going to come out at all.
21
DELILAH
This is different. It’s the first time he’s gone against his normal routine. I have to lie here and pretend not to notice or care, but now my brain is buzzing. Why did he leave the door open? Normally, the first thing he does is lock me inside.
I can’t help but wonder what type of game he’s playing?
I’m so damn tired of having to ask myself that question. This whole thing where I always have to be on my toes, looking out for danger. It’s exhausting. I wonder if I’ll ever get back to a life where it’s possible to just live without having to worry.
Who am I kidding? I’ve never had that kind of life. I’ve always been worried about something or another. Looking over my shoulder, listening for sounds of anger coming from elsewhere in the trailer. Doing everything I could to keep her from blowing up at me. When was the last time I was able to relax? Have I ever?
He’s moving around out there. I’ve seen him walk past the door more than once from the corner of my eye. So it’s not like he forgot to lock the door and corrected himself once he noticed his mistake. That tells me it was a deliberate choice. Is he starting to trust me more?
Maybe Doctor Lauren got through to him. I’m not super thrilled knowing she told him about those pigs and what they did. Still, it might mean better treatment, and I can’t be mad about that. Especially not after what he did to me. I didn’t even care about the blow job. It was the way he came on my chest that was too similar to what they did to me.
Maybe things will start to settle down, and I’ll earn some freedom. I might be able to learn to live with that.
One thing I know for sure: there’s no hope of concentrating on this book. I’ve been staring at the same page since he interrupted me, and the words mean nothing. I’m too distracted now. I keep pretending, so he thinks I’m being a good girl and following the rules.
That’s one drawback to having the door open. He’ll be able to watch me. It’s still better than being imprisoned. Now, when I have to pee, I can just get up and go. What a refreshing change.
Moving to a sitting position from my belly, I stare at the open door. I can’t see him, but I hear him. He’s making a lot of noise. Pots and pans bang against each other. A cabinet opens and closes.
The only reason the sounds stand out is because I’ve never heard him in the kitchen before. I can’t help wondering what he’s doing. The water turns on, almost as if he’s filling a pan. A moment later, I hear him place said pan on the stove. The stove makes a clicking noise, igniting as he turns the knob on. No, I must be imagining things. He doesn’t cook. But he is, and now I’m too intrigued to stay cooped up in the bedroom any longer.
Still, I’m careful, creeping up to the open doorway and poking my head out to catch a glimpse. His back is to me, his shirt stretching over his muscles as he moves around.
I tiptoe farther into the room until I can see what he is doing on the counter. His shirtsleeves rolled up. I’m going to have to try to pretend that it isn’t insanely hot, the sight of his forearms as he opens a jar of sauce and pours it into a pot.
He finally notices me, acknowledging my presence with a mere glance. “Take a seat. Dinner will be ready in a few.”
I almost want to rub my eyes. “Am I imagining this?”
He rolls his eyes at me before turning back to the stove. He means it. He’s actually cooking dinner, and I’m pretty sure I’m dreaming.