Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 92938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
A soft cry came from upstairs and my heart began drumming, moving swiftly to the base of the stairs, my back to the wall as I climbed to the second floor. There was a mirror on the landing between the two flights and I caught a glimpse of myself in my peripheral vision, jaw tense, shoulders held rigid. Another pained cry and the thud of something hitting the floor.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I’m coming, Phoebe.
I’d killed for someone I cared about before. I’d do it again if necessary.
The bedroom door was slightly ajar too and I stood next to it, attempting to peer in, my chest rising and falling. A lamp was lit and in the shadows on the wall, I could see what looked like a man holding Phoebe down. Molesting her as she struggled. Adrenalin pumped through my veins and in one swift movement, I opened the door, raised my weapon, and headed straight for the attacker.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I’m coming, Phoebe!” A male voice. Not my own, although the words were somehow familiar.
“Oh God! You’re the best! The best!” Phoebe screamed back.
In that split second, my fear and reality collided, a harsh internal smack. I drew back just in time to avoid putting a bullet in the back of the head of the guy—I blinked, swallowed—fucking my girlfriend in her bed. The room wobbled. The gun did not.
Phoebe’s eyes flew open and my gaze locked with hers. Her expression morphed from bliss to horror and she screamed, the guy on top of her jolting and scrabbling off, getting tangled in the sheets so that he flipped out of the bed, dangling over the side naked. As he tried desperately to extricate himself from the tangled bedding, his expression filled with shocked terror, his—now—flaccid penis flopped limply from one thigh to the other. To his credit, he’d worn a condom.
It would have been hilarious if I was someone different, watching the whole scene unfold on a movie screen.
I lowered my gun slowly as he managed to unbind himself, jumping to his feet, tripping over the contents of the bedside table that must have been knocked over during their—evidently—frenzied fucking, but catching himself before he pitched over again.
Ice water was slowly filling my veins, dulling any emotion. The guy, who looked to be barely legal, froze, clapping his hands over his groin.
“Why bother?” I asked. We’d both already gotten an eyeful.
The guy’s gaze darted to Phoebe who was now sitting up in bed, the sheet pulled up to her neck demurely, eyes wide, mouth slack, then to the other bedside table where countless pictures of me and Phoebe rested, back to my face, and finally landing on the gun. “Uhhh . . .” he gurgled.
“I think you better go, Easton,” Phoebe said softly, her lashes lowering, her skin smooth and tan against the pale pink sheets.
Easton. My humiliation had a name.
Easton didn’t hesitate. He dove for his clothing, pulling on his pants, stepping into one shoe, before he again, glanced at me, the gun, and then did a half limping-running gait toward the door, dropping his shirt, scooping it up, and then practically throwing himself out of the room as if he expected a bullet to slam into the back of his skull at any moment.
He thudded down the stairs and seconds later the front door slammed.
I’d been in quiet situations before. Hell, I’d spent several hours in my brother’s company, helping with some project or another, the brother who couldn’t speak a word. But I’d never, in all my days, experienced a quiet quite like that one.
“Say something,” she finally squeaked.
“I don’t think I’m the one who should be expected to speak right now.”
Her shoulders dropped. “I’m so sorry, Trav.”
“Why?” I asked dully, the gun that I’d almost used to kill my girlfriend’s lover now held slack at my side.
Phoebe came to her knees, the sheet dropping away as she moved toward me. “Please forgive me,” she pleaded.
I looked away. I didn’t want to see her nudity. It felt obscene after what I’d just witnessed.
She sank down, pulling the sheet over her breasts again as though she’d read my mind. “It’s just . . . I love you. I really do.” Her shoulders lowered. “I just . . . we went to the bar to get a few drinks after the tournament, and I met him there and he was so into me. The way he stared . . . it made me wonder if you really love me at all.” She looked miserable, and despite myself, a twinge of sympathy twisted my stomach. I pushed it down violently.
My gaze caught on a flyer on the floor from the bar they must have been at. It was an ad for dollar drinks.
“You met him at a bar a few hours ago?” Somehow that made it worse. Why did it make it worse? Could it get worse? My girlfriend had gone home with a stranger after a few hours of discounted day drinking.