Stolen Love (Beauty in the Stolen #3) Read Online Charmaine Pauls

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Crime, Dark, Romance, Suspense Tags Authors: Series: Beauty in the Stolen Series by Charmaine Pauls
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Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
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It’s eating him too, or else he wouldn’t have avoided the lodge like I’m doing. “How did you know I’d be here?”

He shrugs, his gaze trained on the distance beyond the cross. “Figures.”

Since after what happened, the gang is no more. Everything fell flat. We went our separate ways, me to chase action to exorcise my ghosts and Leon to develop apps for a crime boss in Johannesburg.

“How’s the new job?” I ask, kicking a lump of soil.

“Great. I’m enjoying the challenge.”

I drag my gaze over him. “You’ve packed on some muscle. Working out?”

“Just keeping fit.”

Keeping safe, he means. In our world, only the strongest survive. “Good for you.”

“Seriously, Ian.” He turns to face me. “Come back to Joburg with me. I have a gig up there to finish. We can grab a few beers and celebrate Christmas, get a few gifts to exchange and shit.”

I almost smile at that. “You’re going to get me a gift and wrap it?”

He grins. “Nah. How about a bottle of rum? I’ll throw in a couple of easy women.”

At women, my gut tightens. Everything inside me goes still. I haven’t gotten hard for a woman since Cas. The only way I can come is in my fist with an image of platinum hair and blue eyes in my mind.

As if realizing his mistake, his expression sobers. “Come with me. I’ll finish the gig and then we can hang out in Mozambique for a few days. Sun, fishing, and booze. What do you say?”

“I’ve got a job lined up,” I lie.

“You don’t need the money.”

“It keeps me busy.”

He works his jaw from side to side. “I have a flight in an hour.”

I stare back at the river. “I won’t be on it.”

He contemplates the rejection quietly. After a while, he says, “If you need a friend, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks.” I dig up the closest thing to a smile from the dregs of my soul and offer him the crumb. “I appreciate it.”

He nods. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

He doesn’t look back as he walks to the bike, gets on, and fits his helmet. The roar of the engine cuts through the silence, disturbing the peace, and a short while later, it’s nothing but a rattle and hum in the distance.

I linger until darkness swallows the outlines that define the cross, until wrong bleeds out and right requires no action other than to survive.

Survival.

If it takes a dozen beers to forget, so be it. I’m not picky about my methods.

I start the engine, drive to the lodge, and shower in the guest bathroom. After changing into a clean T-shirt and pair of jeans, I drive away from the ghosts that haunt me just like I did a year ago. At least in the bar in town there are other people like me, people running from themselves. Even if I’ll be sitting alone, I won’t feel like the only loser.

The bar sits on the outskirts of town, close to the Zambian border. It’s a dump with a fading, yellow façade and a dead neon sign that reads beer. Right of admission reserved is painted in black letters above the door. The glass squares of the door are dirty, but the dim light inside is inviting. It’s easier to get lost in the somber glow of lanterns than being dissected under the glaring light of a tungsten bulb.

The door groans when I push it open. Cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air. A song from a local band plays from speakers mounted on the walls. I can handle anything as long as it’s not a Christmas carol. A few old men sit around the scattered tables, nursing drinks and playing cards. Two younger guys sit at the bar, smoking and chatting to the bar lady who’s leaning with her elbows on the counter and popping gum. They each have a shooter glass in front of them and a bottle of Sambuca on the side.

I take the far corner, order a beer, and make myself comfortable in the shadows.

“Keep them coming,” I tell the bar lady.

I came with the Jeep, but there’s a motel across the road. If I get slaughtered, which is my plan, I can crash there for the night. The mildewy, lumpy mattresses of the rundown rooms beat the sofa in the office. A dirty room here beats the memories that wait for me there any night.

When the bar lady puts a Zambezi in front of me, I twist off the cap and tip back the bottle. I swallow half of the beer in four, long gulps while keeping an eye on the door. A short hallway leads to a toilet, but there’s no backdoor. There’s only one entrance to watch.

The gun in my waistband is a reassuring weight. I made sure no one followed me from the lodge and no cops were hanging around outside before entering. With the police force’s limited resources, I doubt they’re keeping an eye on the lodge twenty-four-seven. After a year with no sign of me, they should’ve given up, but you never know. Someone clever may have paid attention to the date and the significance of Christmas.


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