Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Maybe that scares me the most. That when I fight Kyle Manchester, I won’t be the only one with weapons. If my story is my weapon, my past is Kyle’s ammunition. He won’t hesitate to use it against me to save the life he’s built and his promising future. And the thought that Trevor will be right there for all of it, witnessing the dirt and grime of my past, that thought scares me maybe most of all.
“Want to go back to your place?” he asks. “We could order something, or I could cook.”
He pauses, and I can practically hear him choosing his next words carefully.
“Maybe you can tell me what happened.” He pulls back to study my face. “And we can talk about what your next steps need to be.”
“I want to talk to my mother before I go any further.”
“And your father?” His voice softens. “I mean, I know he’s not exactly father of the year, but if he knew that Kyle—”
“He already knows.” I swallow the lump that’s been growing in my throat since Halima took the stage.
“What the hell do you mean he knows?” Trevor grabs my shoulders, dipping his head until we’re almost nose to nose. “He can’t know, Sofie. He’s still dealing with him. Still courting him for Bennett.”
“Bishop, I told him.” Shame and disappointment thicken the words in my mouth. “He…he doesn’t believe me, or he tells himself that so he can stick to his plan.”
“Unbelievable.” Anger burns in his eyes. “What kind of man is he? To take that piece of shit’s word over his own daughter’s?”
“Don’t.” Tears burn my eyes and my throat swells with familiar hurt hearing him say aloud what I’ve wondered time and time again since I confronted my father about Kyle. “I’m used to it. It’s just…him. Can we leave? Just go to my place?”
I muster a grin and tug on his lapel.
“And you can cook something good for me later.”
He bends until he can whisper in my ear.
“I could get used to taking care of you.”
I work against the smile that forces its way to my lips, but I can’t resist it. I can’t resist him. I’m not sure why I ever even tried. Who resists something this good?
“It’s been a long time since anyone took care of me.”
The smile I couldn’t resist fades as the reality of my situation hits me. I’m not sure that once I expose Kyle Manchester for the douche bag rapist prick that he is, anyone will be able to take care of me, to protect me. For the first time, I may not even be able to take care of myself.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sofie
I step off the elevator into the lobby of my apartment building the next morning like it’s a normal day. Like I’m not setting into motion a series of events that could prove catastrophic for me. Like every other morning, Baker idles outside my building, waiting for me to start my commute to the office. Only this morning, I have a small detour.
“Baker, could we run by my parents’ house first?” I set my slouchy leather purse and a bag of samples for Haven on the backseat beside me. “Do you know if my mother has plans this morning? Besides her usual, I mean.”
Billi Baston is a woman of routine. Every morning she has her breakfast at nine o’clock sharp. Some variation of omelet, grapefruit, her Columbian coffee. Never in her robe or pajamas. Always dressed for the day, hair in place. God forbid our housekeeper, Millie, see her dishabille.
She and my father have a strange relationship. I don’t see love between them, but something almost as strong binds them together. I’m not sure what that is exactly, but it has kept her tethered to my father through infidelities, neglect, and downright indifference. My mother is a mystery wrapped up in another mystery. I’ve always wondered why she stays and why she turns a blind eye.
My phone buzzes from my bag, pulling me from the enigma that is my parents’ marriage. In spite of the difficult conversation ahead, and the even more difficult days ahead once I go public with my story, I smile as soon as I see “Bishop” on my screen.
“Hey, you.” I lean back in the heated seat, bracing myself for that warm Southern drawl.
“Hey yourself.” I hear a smile in that deep-timbered voice. “On your way to the office?”
“Not quite yet.” I pass a hand over my face, agitation returning full force. “I’m going to see my mother first.”
“To tell her everything?”
I want to tell him no one ever gets everything with me, but I don’t. It’s easier to hide your secrets when people think you’re baring them all. They don’t dig as deeply or as hard. Some things will follow me to the grave, and with those secrets as my final bedfellows, I have no illusion that I’ll rest in peace.