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)
“And then?” My fists clutch. I’m itching to kill these bastards more than she is.
“I called the police and ran away. The place was full of drugs, but empty of Camden, who managed to escape. I grabbed a few bags of God-knows-what, knowing that I had no money at this point and that I had to make a quick buck after the deal I struck with the MC. The police arrived and saw everything. Godfrey and Seb were still alive, and they were at a crime scene with enough drugs to last the whole fucking 60’s. That’s how Godfrey and Seb ended up in prison, and that’s why they’ll never rest until I’m dead.”
There’s no point asking why they didn’t rat her out. They wanted her for themselves.
I know what I need to do. What my conscience begs me to do. This day has been full of good and bad. I killed bad people, and now I have the chance to redeem myself by saving a good one. But it’s not that simple. My neck is on the line here, too.
And the fact that I want to fuck the shit out of her? Another complication that can backfire in my face. Do I want to help her or do I simply want her?
“Go to bed, Pea,” I order dryly, walking back to my room, shoulders slumped.
Things just got a whole lot more complex.
Thanks a fucking lot, Country Club.
A platinum-blonde secretary in fancy clothes and with enough makeup to layer a fucking cake greets me behind a massive reception desk made out of deep oak. The title Royal Realty is splashed in golden letters over the fancy wood.
There is nothing royal about the asshole I’m about to confront.
“Good afternoon, Sir. How can I hel—” I don’t even spare the woman a second glance. I simply charge through the double doors straight into God’s office. I tell myself that it’s not about Prescott. He’s been jerking me around for far too long. I need answers.
The woman shoots up behind me, slowed by her heels and fears. Yeah, I wouldn’t mess with me either.
“Sir! You can’t go in there. Mr. Archer’s in a meeting!”
I can see that for myself. I’m standing on the threshold, watching Godfrey behind his desk, two suited men sitting in front of him, in the middle of a heated discussion, which I just broke. The men twist their heads in my direction, and God stares me down like I’m a dog he’s about to smack with a rolled newspaper.
He’s lucky he has guests. If he were alone, I would’ve made a nice rug out of his dead body by now for what he did.
“Welcome, Nathaniel. I don’t recall you making an appointment to see me today.” He sounds composed and tranquil. But his hands are dancing. Pupils darting everywhere.
“A word,” I grit, my eyes bleeding anger. Every second I stand here instead of killing him is a fucking testament of my strength. The secretary’s still behind me, and I watch her in the edge of my periphery making hysterical signals to Godfrey with her hands and mouth, telling him she tried to stop me. Godfrey nods curtly, then turns to the men.
“Gentleman, I apologize, but there seems to be some kind of an emergency. During my unfortunate time at. . .” He scowls, before he continues, “San Dimas prison, I used my time and authority to try and help the young inmates. Nathaniel was one of them, and I trust he has a very good reason to turn to me so suddenly and spiritedly. Please excuse us. Melanie will show you out and reschedule our meeting.”
They all shake hands, while mine is aching to sucker punch him. After a round of pleasantries, the door shuts behind us and Godfrey’s agreeable mask falls, his true colors dripping from every wrinkle of his face.
“I’d slit your throat right here if the very carpet you stand upon wasn’t worth more than your whole, miserable existence, you sad piece of shite.”
I throw my head back and laugh. I’m not Irvin or another brainless muscle guy. I ain’t scared. Pissed? You bet, but not scared. “Godfrey, cut the crap. I ain’t one of your San Dimas groupies.”
“You’re a no one, that’s who you are.” He rolls his plush executive chair back and swivels, giving me his back. He pins a vinyl record into a gramophone. Four Seasons by Vivaldi fills the air. The only reason I know this shit is because he used to listen to this when we were working together in San Dimas.
“Why are you here?” he barks.
“When was the last time you checked on the AB?” I pace deeper into the room and he turns around to face me again. His brows furrow. His back falls to his chair as he exhales.