Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
It was almost eleven at night when I locked the back office. I strolled through the alleyway toward my car, clutching my bag to my chest, my gun inside it.
Though it wasn’t loaded for obvious reasons, it still made me feel significantly safer.
My car’s lights flashed when I unlocked it with the key fob.
I took a few more steps, stopping between the industrial trash cans, hating that I told Simon to leave early today.
I felt a terrible weight launch itself at me from behind.
I stumbled forward, fumbling for the gun in my bag, but the person who tackled me was faster.
They grabbed me by the arm and slammed my back against my car in the darkness. I gasped for air.
“Let go!” I growled, coming face to face with a man wearing a black balaclava.
It couldn’t be Frank because he was taller and leaner than my former employee.
But it could be the man from the Common. The one I hadn’t heard from in months.
“I don’t think so, honey. We’re going to have a long productive talk about how you need to leave this city.”
Leave the city? What happened to killing me? Had I been demoted to banishment only?
He reached out with his gloved hands, trying to pin me to a nearby wall. I took the chance to kick him in the balls. My knee crashed right between them.
He folded in two. I kicked him in the chest, and he fell to the ground. Leaning down, I pulled the balaclava from his head.
It was the man from the Common.
What the fuck?
“Did Frank send you?” I pushed my stiletto heel against his throat, threatening to crush it if he made a wrong move.
“Who the fuck is Frank?” He looked at me absurdly.
The plot thickened. How many people did I piss off this year? This was getting ridiculous.
“Who are you?”
“You need to leave Boston.”
“Tell me who sent you.” I pressed my heel harder to his neck.
“Your water broke,” he said.
What? How did he even know I was pregnant? I wasn’t showing.
I looked down. He took advantage of it. He twisted around, rolling on the ground, jumping to his feet with ease.
I ran for shelter, opening my passenger door, shutting it behind me and locking all four doors automatically, panting hysterically.
His hands slapped my window with force as he tried to get to me again.
“Bitch!”
“Who are you?” I turned the ignition on with shaking fingers. “What do you want?”
“Leave Boston!” He kicked at my car. “Start driving and don’t look back!”
I floored the accelerator, knocking over one of the trash cans while rounding my way to Main Street. I drove past Madame Mayhem’s entrance, Chinatown, and the hustle and bustle of downtown Boston toward Back Bay, my heart beating wildly in my chest.
I thought about calling Pers, or Sailor, or Aisling but ultimately didn’t want the questions and probing. The only person I really wanted to speak to was Devon, but I forfeited all of that the night I told him to marry Louisa. Maybe if he were home, we could talk.
I could tell him what happened, and we could have a conversation.
Or maybe you could do the right thing and take matters into your own hands.
That was how I found myself stopping in front of a police station. I knew this was what Devon would want. And I finally acknowledged that I had to learn to take care of myself before I gave birth.
I heaved in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, trying to regulate my breaths and give my body a chance to stop sweating buckets. This elevated heart rate couldn’t be healthy for Baby Whitehall.
“It’s okay, we’re okay.” I patted my stomach, hoping she believed me.
Sliding out of the car, I walked into the police station and stood in front of the desk clerk who, I swear to God, wad doodling on the book in front of him, yawning and giving me a view of the gum inside his mouth.
“I’d like to file a complaint.”
Or was it a report? I’d never done this before. I only knew police stations from movies and TV shows.
“What’s it about?” He popped his gum in my face. Nice. Professional.
“Stalkers.”
“Plural?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Unfortunately.”
“Take a seat. Someone’ll be with you in a second.”
But someone wasn’t. In fact, I waited thirty minutes before a policewoman came to file my complaint. She seemed extremely uninterested in my story, about the man at the club, and the Common, and Frank, and what happened tonight.
“Call me if you have any new information.” She passed me her card, also yawning before bidding me farewell.
Okay then. Color me underwhelmed.
“That’s it?” I asked, blinking.
She shrugged. “Did you expect fireworks and bodyguards?”
I expected your ass to be competent. But saying that would only land me in trouble with the law, and already, Devon thought I was incapable of making myself an omelet without burning down his “flat.”