Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
What I hadn’t done, though, was lock the door at the top of the stairs that led into the apartment. I’d been too in shock to do anything but move out of its way and let it close behind me.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Adrenaline surged through me, making me feel hot and racy as my head whipped around, trying to figure out what my options here were.
The window.
The window was the only option.
I didn’t have a fire escape.
But because I’d made the loft my bedroom, and I was a little on the paranoid side, I did have an escape ladder attached to the sill.
I could open the window.
Push the ladder out.
And, I don’t know, hope I could climb down faster than they could find me?
The problem being, of course, the fear of heights I hadn’t exactly overcome yet.
Memories of not being able to go up—let alone down—the ladder at the Henchmen compound came back to me, bright and vivid as if it were happening right that moment.
What choice did I have, though?
None.
I rushed toward the window on quiet feet, wrenching it open, lifting the heavy metal folding ladder, and tossing it out.
I wiped my clammy hands on my shorts as I glanced out, sure I couldn’t do it.
But then, from below, a male voice said, “What was that?”
It wouldn’t be long.
They were likely already heading toward the loft stairs.
And if they found me… well, it would probably be a lot worse than falling off the ladder and plummeting to my death.
So what did I really have to lose?
Stomach cramping hard, throat tightening, I crouched down, straddling the windowsill for a beat, then forcing my leg downward until it landed on the step that felt reassuringly sturdy.
It holds over a thousand pounds, I reminded myself as I gripped the windowsill hard enough that I was sure the wood would splinter as I pushed my other leg out and back, landing on the rung.
A whimper escaped me as I forced my hand off the sill, grabbing the top rung.
Why hadn’t I invested in that damn inflatable escape slide instead? I would already be on the ground. Instead of dangling above it on shaky legs and a wet, unsteady grip.
But as I heard footsteps on the stairs, I knew I had to move.
Swallowing back the bile that threatened, I forced my legs down as I death-gripped the ladder.
Just one more step, I told myself. Over and over. Until it became true.
Just as a face appeared in the window opening.
“Fuck!” he yelled. “She’s getting away!”
My feet met the ground in the alley behind the building.
Every inch of me was shaking violently.
But I couldn’t afford to give into that weakness.
I had maybe a two-minute head start.
I had to move.
I turned, sucking in a steadying breath, and ran for my fucking life. Because that’s what I knew I was doing. If these were the men that Clay had been involved with, they were more than willing to kill. They’d killed Clay.
They’d taken him from me.
From Brooks.
From his future wife and kids.
From the world.
They wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to me.
But not before making me suffer first.
I flew down the road, heading down the first side street, just trying to get out of sight, knowing they were likely faster than I was, that there was no hope of me outrunning them if it came to that.
I had to be smarter.
I flew down a familiar alley between buildings, down another block, and squeezed down another alley, the muffled sounds of laughter and music leaching through the bricks.
Chaz’s.
A bar.
Full of people. Who might help me. Or at the very least be a witness to what happened.
I rushed in through the front doors, heart punching against my ribcage as I melted into the crowd, trying to disappear.
My hand went to my pocket, finding my phone.
I wanted to text or call Brooks.
But he wasn’t expecting me.
He might not even have his phone on him during church.
My finger went instead toward my ride-share app, searching for someone nearby. I didn’t have my wallet, my purse must have slipped out of my hand in shock when I’d walked in the door to my apartment. But I could pay on the app.
I needed to get to the clubhouse.
Where I knew I would be safe.
It was a mere eight-minute wait, but I worked myself into knots the whole time, my gaze scanning the crowd, sure I would see the men muscling in, grabbing me, and pulling me off to certain death.
But no one came.
I caught some curious glances from people in the bar, and I realized I must have looked wild right then, hand around my throat, eyes wide.
The alert came through on my phone, and I made my way toward the door, glancing outside, being comforted by a group of people standing on the sidewalk.
My ride was idling, glancing back toward the door.