Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
At least for a little while.
It does me no good to dwell on it. Right now, I don’t know how I’m going to get myself out of this mess, but I will get out of it. It’s the only belief I can grab onto. The bigger picture is all that matters and in the interim, I will take everything in baby steps. Today, I will be grateful that I’m alive. That Archer is safe. And tomorrow, if I have to marry Conor to survive another week on this earth, then that’s what I will do. The road to my freedom is paved with patience.
Freaking out and spewing hate at Conor isn’t going to help this situation. I need to play nice and break down his barriers. I need to figure out how this situation is going to work so that I can manipulate it in my favor, and I need to start now.
So, after spending three hours alone in the bedroom, I finally work up the courage to walk down the hall. Conor’s house is the typical bachelor pad. From my small exploration I conclude there are two bedrooms and a bathroom and nothing homey about the place. Everything he owns is for function only, and there isn’t a single decorative piece in sight.
I find the man himself on the couch, nursing a cup of coffee and what looks like a wicked hangover. It’s not even five o’clock yet. I sit down on a chair opposite him and he glares at me like he wishes I would just drop dead. It’s obvious he isn’t happy about this either, so what I really want to ask is why he’s doing it at all. He must be getting something out of it, but what that might be I can’t imagine.
The tension between us is awkward, and after five minutes of not speaking, I can’t handle it anymore. “Do you want some lunch? It might help with the hangover.”
Conor looks at his watch with bleary eyes. “Christ, when’s the last time ye ate yourself?”
“I ate one of the donuts you gave me this morning.”
He shakes his head, almost like he’s disappointed with himself, but I can’t be sure. “You need to eat. There’s some makings for a sandwich in the fridge, but not much else.”
“I’ll make a couple of them,” I volunteer.
He doesn’t argue. Five minutes later, we’re sitting at the table together in more awkward silence. I can feel his eyes on me while I eat, so I attempt to slow down and act like this isn’t one of the most delicious meals I’ve had in a week.
“Those things I said about you being an addict,” he mutters. “If it’s true that ye’re just hungry, then it was a shitty thing for me to say.”
I look up at him, and my heart feels funny. Is he apologizing? Just when I think he actually means it, he has to go and ruin it.
“But just so ye know, if the opposite is true, it’s going to be finished here and now. No wife of mine will be on drugs. I don’t care if I have to chain ye to the bed and—”
“I’m not a fucking addict,” I snap. “What is with you and that word? You toss it around more often than you breathe. Haven’t you ever heard not to judge a book by the cover?”
He looks away to hide something in his eyes, but I can’t help noticing how rigid his shoulders have gone. There’s something behind that tension, a story. A raw wound. And I intend to get to the bottom of it eventually, but for now, I need to establish this one thing with him.
“If this is going to work, you’ll need to trust me, right? So, for starters, how about we stop beating this dead horse and you just listen to me. I’ve never touched an illegal drug in my life, and that includes marijuana.”
Conor looks up at me again, his eyes unconvinced, but I could swear I see hope there too.
My voice softens, and I feel compelled to go on. “Despite what you might think, I’m a good person. I’ve only ever tried to live a straight life, but things just got fucked up along the way.”
“How so?” he asks.
I fidget with the napkin in my lap as I debate how much I should tell him. “I didn’t go looking for trouble. It found me.”
Conor finishes up his sandwich and pushes the empty plate away. “You mean Muerto?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
He leans back in his chair and studies me. “I’ll need to know what happened. Crow will want the details when it comes down to it, so you might as well tell me.”
That sounds like a bullshit excuse because he doesn’t want to admit he’s curious himself. But regardless, I indulge him.