Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
As I get closer to her, my cell phone goes off in my back pocket.
She bites down on her lip as I rest my forehead against hers, hating that I’m being pulled away from her. I take it out from my back pocket only to silence it, to give her my full attention and make sure she knows she’s safe, but I see it’s my father.
“Stay here,” I tell her softly.
“Where are you going?” she asks as she reaches out for me, grabbing my hand as if I’m leaving her alone in hell.
“Just downstairs,” I say, letting go of her hand but not before kissing her knuckles. They’re soft and undamaged, unlike my own. I look over my shoulder at her as I answer the phone and pass through the bedroom door.
“Hello,” I say coldly as I shut the door and take each step of the stairs carefully. The thuds of my feet are in time with the beating of my heart, slow and meticulous.
“Mason, I have the numbers and it’s going to be rough,” my father says and doesn’t wait for me to reply. He’s in full-on business mode. As if I would buy that and this isn’t damage control.
The click is loud as I lock the front door. I’m barely listening to the man ramble on the other end. He’s an idiot if he thinks for one moment this call will fool me.
Dragging out the chair at the head of my dining room table, I stare at the front door, my eyes focused on the lock before flicking over to the stairs.
I can’t fucking calm down being so far away from her.
She’s safe, I tell myself repeatedly.
“Stop,” I say into the phone, halting my father midsentence. “Do you think I don’t know it was you?” My tone is menacing.
“What was me? Are you still on about the… incident?”
Rage pushes down the accusations.
“You have something and I have something. I’ll be damned if you’re going to screw me on this deal, Mason. Think with your fucking head for once!” He scolds me like he used to, his anger on full display. “I thought we had a deal after I let her walk out with you. Was the understanding not clear?” There’s silence after the unspoken threat.
“Attempting to have her murdered is a part of your deal?” I ask him evenly, although my pulse betrays any calmness I attempt to maintain.
“Jesus Christ, Mason! Why won’t you get over it?”
“So you wouldn’t hurt her? You wouldn’t threaten her life?” The recent events play in my vision as the syringe in my hand taps back and forth on the table.
He snuck in. He had a syringe. He had a gun but didn’t use it.
“I meant to scare her. But I…” he trails off and the strength leaves my father’s voice. “I made a mistake before and maybe I am a little heavy handed, but whatever she was going to say, she didn’t. You can’t be angry with me for that.”
“The hell I can’t. And if you ever hurt her, I’ll kill you.” I don’t bother mincing my words; we’re well past thinly veiled threats. “If anything happens to her,” I say as my blood runs cold as I swallow thickly before continuing, “I’ll kill you myself.”
All I can hear on the other line is a long exhale. “You control her, Mason,” my father says and continues with business. He carries on like this conversation didn’t include a threat to his life. All the while, I stare at the sharp silver needle of the syringe.
If my father didn’t do this, who did?
“Something happened.” My throat dries up and I lean forward, hating that I’m relying on him. Hating that I’m in such deep shit I can’t get out myself. I take in a heavy breath before saying, “Someone came here.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Where’s here? Your home?”
“Yes, someone broke in; I don’t know how. Someone with a gun and he tried—”
“Are you all right?” my father asks, not letting me finish, and he sounds genuinely concerned.
“I’ll be all right when he’s dead,” I answer him coldly, and it’s the truth. “And if I find out you had anything to do with it—”
“I didn’t,” he says, his sharp tone meant to assure me.
I don’t respond, not knowing any longer what to believe.
“Are you sure you want to discuss this over the phone?” he asks after a moment of quiet, and I already know I shouldn’t. I pause, and he continues.
“Do you know who it was?” my father asks, but there’s something in his voice that’s off. Something that makes my blood turn cold. “Was there anything on him?” he asks me with a hint of desperation. The line is silent as I look at the syringe on the table.