Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
But I couldn’t even call an Uber. Ransom had canceled my credit card, which was attached to it. I fumbled for my phone in my pocket, about to call him. Then I stopped myself. No. Telling him I was coming back was admitting defeat. Better if I just showed up and told him I had a change of plans. Bonus points: he’d know I traveled unaccompanied, and possibly—hopefully—would have a heart attack as a result.
I picked up my phone and called Keller.
“Howdy partner,” he said in his most mocking Texan drawl impression. “How’s home treating you?”
“Terrible, as per usual.” I darted up from my chair, pacing. Dragging a hand over my forehead confirmed that, yes, I was sweating buckets. Maybe I was coming down with something. “I need you to call me an Uber. I’ll pay you back.”
“You want an Uber from Texas to California?” he asked, confused. “Ever seen the US map, sweetie?”
“No!” I flung my arms. “From my parents’ house outside of Dallas back to my hotel.”
“But…” I heard him hesitate. “Why can’t you do it?”
“Because, didn’t I tell you, Ransom Lockwood canceled my credit cards!”
“The bastard!” Keller sounded outraged. “And he left you to fend for yourself, ride-less?”
Not exactly. He’d insisted he stay here, until my mother sent him away. He’d probably predicted I didn’t have the stomach to spend an entire night here.
“It’s an absolute nightmare.” I put a hand to my collarbone, dodging his question. “I need your help.”
“All right. Send me the deets. Help’s on the way.”
I did just that, then stomped my way out of Dad’s office, down to the second floor, and outside, completely uninterrupted. No one noticed I’d walked right out of the mansion. This was the perk to being invisible, I supposed. I could slip under people’s radars.
The Uber arrived ten minutes later, and as a midnight blue evening fell across the sky, I started my journey to the hotel.
The entire drive into Dallas, I felt like a giant ball of puke was stuck inside my throat. It was ten past six when my phone started blowing up with calls from my parents. I hadn’t shown up to their dinner. My heart raced in my chest. Ransom was going to lose his shit when I showed up at the hotel. As it happened, bickering with him was my new favorite pastime.
My thighs clenched when I thought about him pressing against me. When the memory of his blood in my mouth seeped into my brain. He was so messed up for getting off on kinks like that. Then again…apparently, so was I.
When the Uber pulled up at Tortoise Creek Mansion, I stumbled out, making my way toward the nearest trashcan, and vomited the little I’d eaten in the past forty-eight hours. Cold shivers rolled through my arms as I swayed onto the premises.
Somehow, I found one of Ransom’s men milling around the reception area, probably making sure nothing seemed suspicious. I could tell them apart from the crowd, because they were all over six foot four and dressed exclusively in black.
I tapped one of them on the shoulder to get his attention. He turned around. “Take me to my room.”
He recognized me instantly. His face paled. I couldn’t blame him. He was about to deliver his boss a very distressed looking, unaccompanied client.
“We need to tell Ransom.”
“No. You work for me, not him.” I started for the elevator. He followed me.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go up there right now.” His thick throat dipped with a swallow.
Of course not. Ransom was going to make a huge stink about it.
“I don’t think I asked for your goddamn opinion!”
“Miss Thorne—”
“No, you listen here.” I wagged my finger in his face, unbothered by the fact the lobby was jam-packed with people in evening gowns and suits, sitting around the bar and listening to a pianist playing an unpolished version of “Hungarian Rhapsody”. “You’re going to be in a world of pain if you don’t let me into my suite right now. Lockwood may be your point of contact, but don’t forget who’s signing that paycheck.”
“Ma’am—”
“I want to go to my room. Now.”
The man ushered me into the elevator, where he swiped a card over the access control panel, before pressing a button leading to the top, private floor.
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot and my hair was a mess. My lips were dry and cracked. My sweatpants were stained. I looked as bad as I felt. And I felt like garbage. I wanted to stumble into bed and forget today had ever happened.
The elevator pinged open. Muscle Man got out first, glancing left and right before motioning for me with his head to join him. He stopped in front of my suite’s door, his hand hovering over the card reader.