Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Now it’s too late to arm myself, of course. He’ll see if I get up and grab a knife. I might as well use that knife to slit my own throat since that’s probably what he’d end up doing with it anyway.
The energy in the air is enough to make my skin crawl. I just wish I knew what he was thinking. Why is he sitting there, sipping the whiskey he almost filled the entire glass with? What’s he planning? He’s got to be planning something.
Dammit, I have to get out of here. Even if he isn’t planning something, he’s going to end up getting drunk if he isn’t already. What happens if he decides to hurt me for real? It’s bad enough he is already frustrated since things don’t seem to be going his way. I can’t sit here and let this happen. My skin’s crawling, my palms are sweating, and I’m about to scream from the tension.
When his head starts to nod, I think I’ve found my way out.
But that’s only part of the puzzle. Sure, if he passes out, it leaves me free to escape. But I can’t just walk out of here wearing nothing but a dress shirt and panties, can I? What’s the alternative? Going upstairs, hoping to find a pair of pants with a drawstring in that enormous closet? Because anything of his will drop right off me otherwise.
Then again, the shirt falls halfway down my thighs—it’s not much shorter than the dress I was wearing when I got here. And if it means getting away, I can stand the embarrassment of being discovered while half-naked and barefoot. So long as I’m discovered. So long as it means getting away.
My pulse is racing, and I can barely hold myself still as nervous energy begins to make my limbs shake. I still have to hold back, waiting to see if he’ll finally lose consciousness. I doubt he would go to bed without forcing me to do the same, so he has to fall asleep where he is.
Which means I’ll have to sneak past him and open the door quietly enough that he won’t be roused. Well, he might have done me a favor with his choice of entertainment since the gunfire and explosions on the TV will probably drown out the sound of the door swinging open. I only hope the action doesn’t die off at the wrong moment. Wouldn’t that just be my luck? No. I can’t even afford to think that way. This is going to be fine. Everything is going to turn out just the way I need it to. I need to think that way.
The only other thing I need is my bag, which is still sitting on the floor on the other side of the sofa. He hasn’t touched it since he left it there after finding the drugs inside. I could sneak past him to get it, right? I have to. There’s no other choice.
Come on, come on, go to sleep. My body is a live wire, every ounce of my attention focused on whether he’s asleep or awake. Whether he’s pretending or not. What if he’s faking it to see what I’ll do? What if this is all a way of testing me?
I can’t afford to think that way. I can’t talk myself out of this, no matter how scary it is. I can’t let him wear me down until I stop trying to save myself. Talk about Stockholm Syndrome. I’m not going to let it happen.
Finally, his chin touches his chest. I can hardly breathe, I’m so scared. You can do this. One step at a time. I can’t afford to let fear get in the way, so I make a mistake.
Once a few minutes pass, and it seems like he might legitimately be asleep, I rise from the chair as quietly as possible and begin tiptoeing into the living room. There’s still plenty of action going on in the movie, so I use it to my advantage, slipping past him before slowly bending down to reach for my bag on the other side of the sofa. I never take my eyes off him, noting the way his chest rises and falls slowly, evenly. He might even be snoring a little, but I can’t quite tell over the sound of a brutal fight going on on the screen behind me.
Finally, I pick up the bag and begin backing away, still watching him for even the slightest twitch. He’s out cold; what little is left of his second drink sitting on the coffee table. Maybe that’s all it took to finally calm down enough that the action and tension of the past couple of days have caught up to him.
I reach out behind me with one hand, feeling around for the door. My fingertips touch the wood, and I start creeping closer to the knob, which I finally close my fingers around. Not so much as a twitch from him yet. Oh, god, this could be it. I could escape.