Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Maybe this is how he talks to every client.
You’re right. It matters. But for the design… I’m going to have to explain some stuff about my Dad, and I’m not sure I can do that in person.
I shouldn’t be doing it anyway, not yet. The truth is, I don’t even have the money for a tattoo.
I want one, though the idea is still unformed.
But my main reason for texting Killian was because my body was screaming out for him, is screaming out for him.
It was like there was this other Mia inside of me, far more confident than I could ever dream of being, telling me that there’s a world where I reach out to him, and it leads to something.
Looking around my room, with the faded wallpaper and the spots of dampness across the walls, I wonder what I’m thinking.
Something more.
Something more than Mom losing her job because she couldn’t stop crying, more than me having panic attacks when I tried to walk into the mall and look for work, more than wondering if anybody would ever want me or could.
But even that’s wrong.
It’s not anybody.
It’s just him. Killian.
A man I’ve never met.
Maybe I’m going crazy.
I’d really like to see you, Killian texts.
I remind myself this is probably part of his business, encouraging people to attend appointments, and doing everything he can to get people through the door.
It has nothing to do with the silly thoughts cascading through my mind.
You don’t have to be afraid, Mia, he sends a moment later.
Who said I’m afraid? I type quickly, rage fueling the movement of my thumbs. Maybe I’m busy. Maybe I’ve got stuff to do. Maybe I want to make this process as streamlined as possible. Fear doesn’t have to come into it.
I’m reading your poetry. That’s how I know you’re afraid.
I gasp, my eyes flitting over his words.
So he did search for me online.
And he’s reading my poetry.
Poetry that talks about Dad and how intimidating the outside world is, that talks about fear and shyness and….
And what was I thinking, putting that online?
I go to the freelancing website and remove it quickly, my shame touching me.
My phone buzzes again, but I don’t look at it. I won’t.
He’s overstepped the line, taking the conversation there, where it has no business being. This isn’t supposed to be about my terrible poetry.
I try to focus on my work, mundane and routine, as temptation tries to make me look at my phone to see what his latest text says.
CHAPTER 3
Killian
I texted her, Mia?
That was it, just her name, to see if she was going to respond.
That was last night, almost twenty-four hours ago.
I’m in the studio now, finishing up a back piece on one of my old boxing buddies. His name is Graham, and his body is covered in tats, the same way mine is.
“Something wrong, K?” he asks.
“No,” I grunt, focusing on my work, not thinking about how I lost control last night.
I didn’t intend on taking the conversation anywhere except for her tattoo, but then it was like a demon took possession of my fingers, sending the texts before I could listen to reason.
She deleted her poetry, but I’d already read it.
There was, is too much longing in me.
Reading her words, I learned about the way she feels when walking down the street, the sensations assailing her, looking at other people like they’ve got it all figured out, and she never will.
I want to help her.
But can I help her while also claiming her in the most possessive, aggressive way? Can I help her while tearing off her clothes and throwing her onto the bed, leaning over her and guiding my rock-hard cock up her thigh, teasing her as I get closer and closer?
My work, focus on the work….
Once the texting was done, I showered and went to bed, but I couldn’t resist downloading her photo and gazing at her, imagining what her voice sounds like, and wondering if her shy lips will part when I kiss her or if she’ll keep her mouth closed.
“You sure?” Graham says a minute or so later.
“Eh?”
“That nothing’s wrong? You worried me last week, got to be honest.”
“I never should’ve told you that.”
Last week, somebody vandalized the store with a Sante Muerte statue – a symbol of death. Back in the day, when Graham and I were both coming up in the boxing community, a small group of Cartel members used to do the same thing.
Throw the statues through windows as intimidation tactics.
For us, that meant worse would follow if we didn’t throw the fights as they’d ordered us to.
I never threw a fight, refused it, and it became a point of contention – of near war – with a man called Emil Madrigal.
But then the DEA swept into the city, and Emil and his goons ran.