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)
“Thanks. I’ll be right back.”
Prescott likes me, but she still doesn’t trust me. She locks her bathroom door twice and I know my dagger is still tucked inside her delicious underwear. She asked me for my full name but probably lied to me about having a kid when I asked her about it. I need to remember that she’s keeping some secrets from me. She’s not to be trusted, in any way or form.
When Pea comes out, looking fresh and prettier than I’ve ever seen her before, the scent of heaven drifting from her body, she joins me near the window. I haven’t left it since we walked in. I’m staring down her sleepy Danville street, counting cars, joggers and dogs on fancy leashes. This place, it doesn’t suit her. She was born for something less restrained. More. . .chaotic.
She puts on a blood red dress, which looks like a huge shirt but somehow hugs her body like it’s a fucking condom, and a tailored leather jacket.
“Are we good to go?” I ask. She nods and throws her backpack over her shoulder. “Yeah, I texted Hussein. He’s waiting for us.”
I nod to the door.
“Let’s wrap this shit up.”
“Don’t you want to have a quick shower first?” She’s still rooted in place. I walk straight for the door and mumble a definite “No” before I stop dead in my tracks.
“Why, do I need one?”
“Well,” she says with a shrug. “You reek of sex.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” I test, cocking a brow.
“It’s a distracting thing.” There’s a private grin on her lips. I haven’t seen it before and immediately decide that it belongs to me. Glancing at the door and back to her, I’m trying to figure out if she’s buying time before getting down to the dirty stuff. To say I ain’t happy about leaving her to watch for Godfrey and Seb on her own is an understatement, but if I smell like a stale fart, I wanna get it out of the way. Especially seeing as I’m waiting for her to make the next move, and it’d be in my favor if I didn’t smell like a five-day-old rotten fish.
“Watch the street and holler at me if something’s wrong. I’ll be quick.”
“You always are.” She wiggles her brows, resting one shoulder against the wall by her window.
“Fuck you.” I smack her ass hard enough for it to be considered a warning before I disappear through her bathroom door, throwing my clothes off on my way to my point of destination.
“Been there, done that,” she shouts from the living room. “Five times tonight, actually.”
My cock twitches, but I keep my cool. I can mess around, smack her here and there. She loves that shit, but full-blown sex? That’s for her to decide the ifs and whens.
I shower with her fancy coconut-vanilla products, and by the time I saunter into the living room, I smell so good I have to check if I still got my balls intact. Pea is squeezing on a stress ball, her hazels never leaving the window.
“You ready? Hussein is probably wondering where we are. We need to make a move.”
“Yeah.” I yank the backpack from her hand and swing it over my shoulder. “Where to?” I ask, already out the door. Prescott stops, her hand on the doorknob as she inspects her darkened apartment one last time. Sorrow pings through me. I didn’t look back when I left Irv, because I never cared for that house, or for the little shit I lived with.
But this was the place where she learned it was okay to be broken.
Grief is thick in the air, making it harder to draw a deep breath, and I find myself wrapping a hand over her shoulder, planting a cautious kiss on top of her head. “They’re just walls.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” her voice is hollow. “So many walls to break, so little time.”
Our first stop is the ATM across the street. I wait in the car. Prescott borrows my black hoodie and pulls it all the way down her face. Jogging to the machine, I watch as the deep black sky swallows her figure whole. The white light pouring from the ATM screen highlights the arcs of her face. I see the outline of the dagger—my fucking dagger—under her dress. She doesn’t trust me.
And the worst part? I don’t trust her, either.
As she punches the screen, looking left and right, fiddling with an old cell phone she jammed a SIM card into and texting an unknown number, it dawns on me that I really don’t know what her next move is, and whether it involves compromising me.
In other words, I put my trust, life and what’s left of my soul in a girl I don’t trust enough to pour me a glass of water without suspecting she poisoned it.