Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
“That your stripper name or your real name?” I raise a brow, looking up at her. She’s real close and smells clean, like she just stepped from a shower. My mouth waters thinking about what her skin will taste like.
“Excuse you?” she retorts, arms folding, eyes squinting in anger.
“How else would you be in this type of crowd? Wait, unless you’re with one of those pricks,” I tease.
Standing, she scoffs. “What an ignorant thing to say. I already told you my mother got me into this situation. I don’t dance on a pole or biker dick. I’m in college—was in college. Fuck.” She covers her face with her hands. “They’re going to kill my mother. I need to go get her.”
“That would be the first place I’d go to wait for you,” I inform her, peeling back the band-aid to look at the inch wide cuts. I’ve had worse.
“So, you’re saying I’m too late?” She worries her lip with her teeth.
“I’m saying it’s a trap.” I notice a liquor cabinet and jerk my chin toward it. “Pass me the whiskey.”
“Dammit,” she breathes, going on autopilot to the cabinet and handing me the bottle. “Will that sterilize a needle?” She frowns.
“It’s for drinking,” I grunt, pushing the lid off and gulping down the tawny liquid. It’s cheap but it will do. “How did she get you into this shit? What did your mother do?” I ask, my eyes tracking up her body. The jeans don’t reach her ankles and are skin-tight on her thighs. They must be her sister’s.
“Drugs.” She throws her hands up. “Isn’t it always an addiction?”
“And she uses you to pay off her debt.” I shake my head. I’ve seen that shit too many times. Fuckers like that should be sterilized.
Her eyes narrow on me. “I can usually get the money together, but this time, she’d racked up too much. Fisher offered me a job to buy time. I didn’t think it would be…” she throws her hands out toward me, “you.”
I’m surprised how much issue she has with them fucking me up. Most people would save their own ass, but she puts hers in danger to right her wrong. “If you’re always bailing your mother out, she’s going to keep using you.”
She stops flaying around and looks at me, her eyes glossy. “What else can I do, let them kill her?”
“Yeah. That’s exactly what you should do.” I tip the bottle to my lips and take another pull. My thoughts begin to muddle. Dizziness whirls the images in the room.
“Let me look for a sewing kit,” she murmurs, sounding like she’s in a tunnel getting farther away from me. I attempt to move my lips to say something, but nothing comes out. I can’t connect my brain to my mouth. My eyes droop without permission, getting heavy. Too heavy. I’m fading again.
Fuck.
“Hey.” Something taps at my cheek. My eyes flutter open, finding her sitting next to me, surveying me. “I found what we need.” She points to the table laid out with water, a towel, a sewing kit, and a lighter. I must have fallen asleep because I didn’t even hear her move around. “You’re going to have to tell me what to do,” she says, moving the blanket lower.
“Have you ever sewn up a pair of pants or sweater?” I ask, feeling weak.
“No, but I’ve watched Grey's Anatomy and get the gist.” I don’t know what the fuck that is, but I nod my head, a cold sweat soaking my brow. I feel like shit. “I’m scared I’ll hurt you.” She tracks my body with a nervous gaze.
“You don’t even know me. Why do you care?”
“Because I’m not a damn monster,” she says, incredulous.
I am.
“Just do it,” I tell her, moving to a lying position.
She gets on her knees beside the couch and unpeels the Band-Aids. “I’m going to clean them first, okay?”
“Fine.”
Swiping around the cuts, she cleans the blood, her movements delicate. “Okay. What now?” she asks.
“Burn the end of the needle to sterilize it. Wait for it to cool and thread the needle.”
Holding up a packet, she says, “Do you have a color preference for the cotton?”
“Ruby,” I growl.
I catch the soft smile tugging at her lips. It’s stunning. “You haven’t told me your name,” she muses, getting to work on threading the needle.
“You haven’t asked,” I remind her.
Those large eyes flicker to mine. “I’m asking now.”
“Ezekiel.” The name leaves my mouth without engaging my brain. I don’t know why the fuck I tell her my real name. I never tell anyone my name. The blood loss is getting to me.
“That’s such a beautiful name.”
“No, it’s not,” I gruff. “It’s a manly name.”
I notice her bite the inside of her cheek to stifle a laugh. Holding up the threaded needle, she asks, “You ready?”
“Do it.”