Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Aware of the presence of a dead body in the room, I peek outside the window. I’m not sure how many of them are standing behind the door of this room, but there are at least four walking back and forth at the entrance of the house. I look down, calculating the height. If I jump down, I’ll break a leg. Maybe a hand. Probably both. I won’t be able to run away fast enough to get away from them. And I have no idea how far I should run. Maybe for miles. No promises Nate stuck around.
Though I know he has. I know my lover. My man. My peace.
Trembling fingers covered in my jacket's worn leather grasp the doorknob, intending to swing it open, when I hear a shot. Then another one.
They didn’t come from my gun.
What the hell?
Ten minutes later, homeboy officially loses his shit.
Fuck it. I’m going in and if I die, at least the pain of knowing she didn’t make it will go away. Dead people don’t feel. Ghosts can’t be haunted.
I don't know how I managed to hold off for more than a second knowing she could be in danger. What was probably only ten minutes seemed like a fucking century.
Yeah, guns are for pussies, but when it comes to Cockburn’s life, I’m not brave. I am a pussy. I can take a gamble with my own life. Take the gun we stole from Sebastian and figure shit out for myself. But Prescott? I’ll use every dirty trick in the book and out of it to make sure she’s safe.
I count the bullets in the gun before I go in. Six rounds.
Six. That means I’ll still have to handle at least some of them with my fists. The first two to go down are the Aryan Brothers standing at the front door. I’ve never used a gun but my aim is good. I have steady hands and a knack for doing all things violent.
In all probability, people from neighboring houses heard the shots. There are only two houses on Godfrey’s cul-de-sac, and judging by the fact that they let a bunch of criminals hang out here for hours without calling the cops, there’s a chance I might have a bit more time to pull my shit together. Maybe they’re not home this time of year, those rich bastards. Here’s fucking hoping.
I storm into the house and two more assholes run toward me with fists and knives.
Boom. Boom. Gone.
“Pea?” I call out, looking around the open-space foyer. I can see most of the kitchen from this angle, and it’s empty. I hop up the stairs, taking two at a time, my quads burning.
“Prescott!” I boom, kicking the first door in the hallway open. Nothing.
“Baby-Cakes?” My voice breaks. Two more Aryan Brothers appear from the far corner of the hallway and I shoot them down immediately.
I’m out of bullets, but I don’t give a fuck.
“Try and kick something, make some noise,” I prompt her.
If she’s dead, I’m burning down this whole house, with me inside. But she’s not. She’s tougher than Godfrey, and he doesn’t even know it.
Maybe he found out.
I’m just about to kick the second room’s door when it swings open, and I take a step back on instinct, only to find the face of the love of my life staring back at me. Wide-eyed, shocked and trembling. . .but healthy and still standing.
Thank God.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Cockburn. Why didn’t you answer me?”
“I ran and hid in his closet when I heard gunshots,” she murmurs and throws herself into my arms. I pull her into a suffocating hug, one that’d hopefully glue her back together. When we break away, I run my fingers over her face, her nose and her mouth, then touch her hair. Doing inventory, making sure they’re all still there. “Where’s Godfrey?” I ask. She takes a step sideways and I see him on the floor, his Hawaiian shirt torn around his neck. She killed him with her hands.
“Guns are for pussies.” She grins, pressing her hot, sweet mouth into mine, and I feel like fucking her right here on the floor, but that’ll have to wait.
“Come on,” I grab her hand. “We need to rethink this law on guns. If you see someone coming, shoot them. We don’t have time and I don’t have bullets.” I gesture toward the gun she’s clutching.
Descending the stairs, she halts near the first step of the staircase, takes my sleeve and wipes the railing.
“Fingerprints?” I ask. She nods. I grab one of the Nazi bastards who are lying dead at the foot of the stairs and crash his head against it. Blood splatters all over the railing. “That covers it.”
We storm out of the house and into the car in record time. When I rev up the engine, my girl tells me, “We have one more stop. London, England.”