Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Fuck!” Dion turns back around and slams the door behind him.
Sparrow looks at the smirking asshole in the corner, nudging his head to where Dion just left. “Go see what his problem is now.”
“What’s your plan, Sparrow? You can’t keep me here,” I deflect.
Does he not know about Dion and me? Maybe I was right. Maybe Dion just took too many drugs and probably forgot about me. I wouldn’t complain.
He lowers himself down onto the chair that’s near the fireplace. “Why not?” The corner of his mouth twitches, and it’s the first time since I agreed to participate in this fucked-up game that I realize I may just be in over my head.
The door slams closed again, and I jerk up, my eyes flying to where they both enter. “Was there even a game? And what is Dion Quinn doing here?” I don’t bother to look at him when I say his name. Mainly because, one, I hate him, and two, I hate him.
“Dion Quinn.” Sparrow leans forward, reaching for a bottle of whiskey that’s open on the coffee table that separates us. “Is here for the same reason Malyk and I are.”
Malyk. Mal-lick.
“Then why am I here? I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to play.” I stand from the sofa, but my legs won’t move. I look down to see two shackles clamped around my ankles. “What are you doing?” Hot anger soars through my blood and I fall back down onto the sofa. “You can’t fucking keep me here against my will! This is the twenty-first century!”
The room falls silent. I’m the smart friend. The one that has to look after Cooper. I’m not the type to end up on a secluded island with three psychopaths.
“What has the century got to do with it?” Malyk shifts to the side, and I catch his movement. I thought I had him figured out, but I’m beginning to think I was wrong. That isn’t mischief I see. It’s malice. It’s all the tales I was told as a little girl walking in the human form. “For your information, baby, our ancestors weren’t quite as bad…”
Dion
One month earlier
I was done with the fucking loud crowds. There was a false sense of relief that came with that curtain closing, or that final step off the stage. I didn’t even want to fucking be here, and I’m pretty sure they all knew it.
“D, you need to figure out what you’re doing for the tour next year,” Lydia said, clicking her heels across the wooden floor and pulling out the chair that was closest to me. She was fucking good at that. Making her presence always known, fuck who it made uncomfortable. I guess that was why she was so damn good at her job.
“I told you. I don’t know what I want to do next year.” I flicked the pen around my fingers, studying the dried blue ink on the piece of paper.
Fuck. I hadn’t been hit with a creative block this big since—well—never. I needed something. I could feel my fans suck all of the creativity right from my fingertips, but I wouldn’t tell Lydia that. She’d just pop off on how I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for them, which was true. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to be here anymore, so I didn’t seem to care.
“What?” She leaned back in her chair, flinging her long leg over the other.
The skirt she was wearing rode up, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure the server behind the bar had a hard-on from that alone. It’s not that Lydia was that attractive, it’s that men were that desperate.
“Dion, elaborate, please. Come on. You need to fill me in on these—” She reached for the packet of cigarettes in front of her. “Weird little moods you get into.” A cloud of thick gray smoke flew out from between her cherry red lips. “I’m all for the moody phase, but you’ve been going through this for almost a year. Fill me in. Come on.”
“How about—” It was my turn to lean back in my chair now, and she didn’t miss the sudden shift. Nor the spread of my legs as I studied her closely. She made a habit of this. Coming to my house and bringing work in through the doors. “You let me be the artist, and you do the other shit, and I’ll holla at you when I’ve found my shit again?”
Her face paled, and that wasn’t hard to do on Lydia, considering she had zero color to begin with. “But that could take months—years—and remember your ten percent is in my pocket.”
“Last I checked, Lydia, that wasn’t an issue for us.” I stared at the rolled joint between my fingers, sizing it up. What the fuck was I going to do if I couldn’t get out of this rut? I felt like a fraud. What kind of artist just runs out of juice?