Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 32248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Unnerving me.
After a few long moments, James straightens and wipes at his eyes, getting himself together.
Then he repeats, “Do you think I should run?” and bursts into more laughter.
When he slaps at his leg, my unease only grows.
He’s finding this entirely too funny, and he still hasn’t admitted he’s only messing with me.
If this was a prank, I know he’d be lording it over me.
But he’s not.
Shaking his head, James turns away from me and walks over to his car. Chuckling the whole way.
When he opens his car door, he pauses and looks back at me. His eyes still bright with his laughter. “That was a good one.”
Sliding behind the wheel, he slams his door shut. His taillights flash on, stinging my eyes, and I bring my arm up in reflex.
It’s almost full dark now.
I watch his car zip down the road until his lights blink out.
Then, realizing I’m standing on the side of the road all alone, I get the heebie-jeebies and hurry into my own car.
“What the fuck?” I whisper to myself and start my engine.
Gripping my steering wheel hard, I hit the gas and maneuver the twists and turns of the dark back road until I reach the street that will lead me back to civilization.
Driving like I’m trying to race back to my sanity.
But the city itself only fills me with more confusion and angst.
I should have moved. That was the plan, anyway, after the ‘rescue’. Hell, my therapist pushed hard for it. My mother was even on board. Offering me free use of her vacation houses scattered across the globe until I could get on my feet.
But I didn’t.
My therapist, or more accurately former therapist, believes I’ve stayed because I’m some kind of glutton for punishment. That I believe I should be punished for what happened so I’m punishing myself.
Picking at all my scabs and not allowing them to heal.
And I admit, I can see why they believe that. But it isn’t why I’ve stayed.
I don’t enjoy waking up in cold sweats when I do happen to fall asleep. Or having full-blown panic attacks when I see a white van.
Nor do I get off on tormenting myself by driving near the area where we were taken. I’d avoid the area completely if I could.
I could honestly do without all of it. If there was a pill or some kind of magic wand that would make it all go away, I’d be all over it in a heartbeat.
But there’s not.
And I refuse to run.
I won’t be driven from the only place I’ve ever lived.
I won’t be forced away from the two people in this world I actually give a shit about because of what was done to me.
Why should I? I’m the one who has been wronged, dammit.
It’s the fuckers out there that had a hand in it, in hurting me, hurting Beth, hurting Sophia, and killing Lindsey, who should fucking run.
This is my city. My home.
I won’t let them take this from me, too.
When I hit the main strip downtown, my eyes immediately roam over all the bars and clubs. It’s dead right now, too early for the crowds, but it doesn’t stop me from remembering.
Remembering what it was like when every night was full of anticipation and excitement. The excitement of not knowing exactly who I’d run into. The thrill of anything could happen.
Getting drunk and dancing my ass off. Not knowing whose bed I’d wake up in.
I tried going back to the club once with Sophia before she and James became a thing.
It ended up being a total disaster.
I couldn’t handle so many people crammed into such a small space. Brought up too many awful memories.
And it wasn’t even the men that set me off.
It was all the women.
Being surrounded by so many other women again…
Shuddering, I fight the urge to slam my gas pedal to the floor and blow through the red light.
My fingers creating new grooves in my steering wheel, somehow I make it home without running anyone over.
But the emotions and things I don’t want to feel right now are slithering under my skin.
Begging to be let loose.
Begging to bite something.
Slamming my car door shut, I bypass the elevator for the stairs. Hoping the long walk will burn off some of this unwanted… tension.
By the time I reach the top floor, I’m an exhausted, panting, sweaty mess.
But I still feel like breaking something.
Punching in the code to unlock the door to my penthouse, I rush inside and slam the door behind me.
Toeing my shoes off, I start to strip.
A habit I’ve recently developed. For whatever reason, when I’m home alone it feels better to be in my skin.
After tossing my shirt away to join all the others on the floor, I work the button of my jeans and shove them down.