Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
"I'm afraid you're not in control anymore, Wasp," he told me, voice low, lethal. And, damnit, a little too sexy given the situation. "We're going to do this. And you're going to give me answers. I deserve that, at least."
It was hard to argue with that.
Still, I felt like I had to.
I had to gain some ground. I was stumbling on the small plot I was standing on.
"Look, everyone who gets conned is embarrassed and angry. It's natural. I get it. But that's just how it is. You'll come to grips with it."
Being snippy—even if I was faking it—was the wrong move with Fenway's apparently volatile mood.
One second, he was in his seat.
The next, he was shooting across the space, dropping down next to me, fingers snagging my chin, forcing me to face him.
"Tell me, Wasp, do you fuck all your marks?" he asked, voice tight, barely holding onto his anger.
The revulsion in his face was a hot knife to the stomach.
I didn't recognize my voice when it came out, small, weak, choked.
"No."
"I don't know if I should believe you," he said, jaw so tight a muscle ticked there.
"I know you're angry, Fenway," I told him, wincing, "But you're hurting me," I told him, trying to pull my chin away.
His hand yanked backward like I'd burned him, face jolting back as though I'd struck him.
He wasn't a violent man.
He didn't hurt people. At least not on purpose. Which only served to prove just how badly I'd affected him.
"Why?" he asked, voice small, pained, another stab wound in my chest. "Why me? What did I ever do? What did you want from me? And don't," he cut me off when I started to speak. "Don't try to tell me it doesn't matter. It matters. You fucked with my life, Wasp. That matters. I deserve to know why."
I swallowed back the plea for him to forgive me that bubbled up and threatened to burst out, steeling my voice.
"I was hired for the job."
"Hired by whom?"
"I don't know who. I got an email through my website. They didn't give me much information other than your name, whereabouts, and the fee they were going to pay me to do the job."
"And what was the job?" he asked, eyes accusing. I deserved it, but it still hurt to see in those eyes that had only ever looked at me with kindness and wonder and humor and affection.
"To make you fall in love with me. And then break your heart," I told him, feeling the sting of tears, blinking them back. It wasn't the time or place. I just had to hold it together for a little while longer. We weren't that far from the pick-up location.
"Why?"
"I can't answer that, Fenway. I didn't ask. But, usually, this kind of thing is because you hurt someone else," I told him, eyes begging him to understand, to see this through a lens other than his pain. Maybe then he could see mine. That was selfish, but I couldn't help it.
He had a right to his pain.
But he wasn't the only one hurting.
I felt like my heart was getting crushed to dust inside my chest.
"I haven't been a saint," he admitted, eyes cold. "But I have never been cruel enough to make someone love me, then fuck them over for the hell of it. Oh, forgive me. Not for the hell of it. For something much worse. For money."
I couldn't... I just couldn't do this anymore.
"Hey," I called, seeing us drive right past the pick-up location. "Hey," I called to the driver again, turning to look at him. "You're supposed to let me out there. Hey!" I yelled when he ignored me, just pushing the button so the privacy window slid into place. "Let me out!" I shrieked, flying at the window, fists pounding on it. "Let me out, damnit. I have to get out of here," I added, hysteria rising up and bubbling over.
I never understood people who lost their ever-loving shit. Until that moment. When I was yelling and slamming my hands against a window, tears flooding my eyes.
"Let me out!" I tried again, voice catching.
"Hey, hey," Fenway's voice called, hands grabbing my wrists, pulling them away from the window. "Calm down," he demanded.
"I need to get out of this car. I can't breathe in here," I added, yanking against his hold. "I can't breathe," I hissed, my throat tight, invisible hands closing around it, cutting off my air, making my pulse pound, my face feel tingly.
It was just a panic attack, I tried to reason with myself. It wasn't a big deal. I was going to be fine. But I sure as hell didn't feel fine. I felt like my heart was going to break through my ribcage, like it was going to pound out of my chest.