Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 101399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
“What if I’m never ready to give you a damn thing?”
“You will be.” His smug satisfaction rankled.
“You so sure?”
“Yes. You and me. The end.” He pulled the blanket up and tucked it around my shoulder. “You’ll see.”
I didn’t respond, just stared into the murky room.
“And one day, sooner than you think”—his voice dropped—“you’ll give me everything.”
12
Sebastian
She didn’t sleep, not until the sun began to peek around the edges of the heavy curtains along my wide windows. So many times I wanted to touch her, pull her into my arms. But she’d fight me, which I didn’t mind. She could also hurt herself, which I did mind.
I had to wait for her to come to me. It was agonizing to think of the time we’d waste with her being angry, the eventual escape attempts, and the recriminations about me stealing her. Her feelings were warranted, at least that’s what my dad would have said. I had no idea if they were or weren’t.
At least she was near me and away from the douchebag who was foolish enough to think he’d ever have a claim on her. I couldn’t even think his name. I balled up his memory and threw it into the wastebasket of my mind. Maybe I’d set it on fire later.
Biding my time would be difficult, but Camille needed me to be patient with her. She had to accept her situation. There was no getting out. Once she understood that, she would begin to see that this wasn’t so bad, and in fact, was optimal.
Would I enjoy toying with her a bit while she tried to find a way out? Of course. After all, I was still a psychopath.
“What are you doing in there, son?” My dad knocked at my door.
I petted Frankie, her fur smooth under my palm. “Just playing with Frankie.”
He swung the door open and surveyed my typical ten-year-old’s room. Posters of athletes plastered my wall, and a thorough collection of Star Wars Legos lined my shelves.
“What’s up, Dad?”
The color faded from his face. “Son? What happened to Frankie?”
“Not sure.” I kept stroking her, happy to have a chance to pet her. I’d loved her from the moment my father had brought her home, and she’d taken to me. Sleeping in my room and curling up in my lap whenever I sat still. “I went downstairs this morning and found her on the floor in the kitchen. Stiff.”
His eyes widened as they darted from me to the cat and back again. “She’s dead, son.”
I kept stroking her fur. “Yeah. I think so.”
He walked in and sat next to me on my bed. “Did you do it?” He put one hand on my shoulder. “I-I won’t be mad. I just need to know the truth.”
I couldn’t understand the question. Did I do what? But then it became clear. My father thought I’d killed her, my darling cat. “You mean did I kill Frankie?”
“Yes, son.” He squeezed my shoulder, though I could feel the shake in his hand. “Did you?”
“No.” I met his eyes. “I swear. I found her like this. I loved her, Dad. I’d never hurt her.”
He nodded, some of the fear draining away. “You promise? I won’t be mad.”
“I promise.” I gave him my most “grownup” look. I didn’t lie to my dad. Not ever. Whenever my childhood brain suffered from a mature moment of clarity, I could see that Dad was the only thing standing between me and an institution. He’d told me as much on a few occasions.
“Thank god.” He sighed. “I was worried you’d—”
“Turned into a pet murderer?” I laughed.
“Right. I know.” He stood and scooped Frankie off my bed. “I shouldn’t have thought it. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’m sure going to miss Frankie.” I wasn’t sad, or at least I wasn’t “sad” the way people in books and movies were. I didn’t cry or feel anything. But I didn’t like losing her, either.
“I wish she didn’t have to die.”
“She was a good cat. I’ll have Timothy bury her out near the tree line.” He hesitated at the door. “Sorry again, son. I should have known you’d never do anything like that.”
“Don’t worry.” I waved my last goodbye to Frankie.
Once Dad was out of sight, I flopped back on my bed and counted my blessings that he hadn’t asked me about Colonel RedSpur, the neighbor’s “missing” pet rooster.
Camille turned onto her back, one hand draped on the pillow next to her. Her breaths came in a soft rhythm.
She’d compared herself to being a kept pet, but she was more. So much more. I’d never longed to touch someone the way I did her. I followed the curves of her body beneath the covers. She was gorgeous. Round breasts, a tapered waist, flaring hips—I closed my eyes and pictured the strawberry mole on her hip.