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)
What am I supposed to do? There’s an expectant sort of energy in the air like he’s waiting for me to make a move. I wish somebody had told me the rules of this game in advance.
“Can I get you some coffee?” I offer, for lack of anything better to say.
He scoffs, and right there, I see the influence he’s had on Enzo. I wonder how many times he’s watched his grandfather do that, but it’s been so frequent that he picked up the habit himself. “Coffee? I need a little something stronger than that. Two fingers of whiskey on the rocks.”
It’s a little earlier in the day than I would have my first drink, but I guess a man of his age has every right to decide for himself. I go over to the bar cart, glancing in Enzo’s direction when I do. He’s talking with more men, his body half turned in my direction. Like his attention is split, though he doesn’t want to show it. There’s no way he can be as anxious about this as I am, is there? I wonder why.
I pour the drink, adding ice cubes from the little bucket on the cart, then take the glass to the table. “Here you are, sir.”
“Thank you. Please, have a seat. I’ve been anxious to get to know you better.”
Yes, I just bet he has. There’s an almost playful tone in his voice, like this is all a big joke—but it’s more like the way a bully would laugh as he pins down his target. At least that’s how it sounds to me right now when I’m trying so hard not to shake. What happens if I mess up, and he figures out this has all been a big lie?
I lower myself into a chair at his right hand while he savors the first sip of whiskey. “I never was much of a coffee drinker,” he explains, rattling the ice in the glass. “Nowadays, my doctor would rather I avoid it. Blood pressure, and all that.” I nod for lack of anything better to do. His doctor is more than likely right. The man has to be at least seventy years old.
“Tell me about yourself,” he continues, eyeing me while wearing an expression I can’t read.
“What would you like to know?” Oh, this is bad. This is so bad. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be.
“Are you generally in good health?”
A strange way to lead off, but at least I can answer this one without having to make anything up. “Yes, I always have been.”
“No serious illnesses?”
“Not really. The normal colds, that sort of thing. An ear infection or two when I was younger.”
“And what about your reproductive system? Is everything in order there?”
Surprise widens my eyes for a second, but I manage to keep a handle on myself. “As far as I know.”
“Everything working normally?”
“Yes, always.” My skin’s crawling, and I want more than anything to be out of this room, away from this man with his intrusive questions. Next thing I know, he’ll point me to a table with stirrups set up at the end. Maybe the whole setup is waiting in one of those boxes.
He folds his arms on the table, leaning a little closer. But there’s no intimacy in the gesture. It’s not like we’re two people having a private and slightly uncomfortable conversation, so he wants to make it easier on me. No, he’s closing in on his prey, is all. He can pretend all he wants, but I see right through him—and it’s terrifying. “Tell me about your family.”
Fear skitters down my spine, and I’m afraid I’m going to scream. My heart’s pounding against my ribs, and my throat tightens until I know I won’t be able to get a word out. A sip of coffee helps loosen me up a little. “What would you like to know?” I manage to whisper. Oh please, God. Don’t let him be what ends me. As much as I would rather cut off an arm than marry Enzo, I don’t need to lose my life over this.
“Have you any siblings?”
I don’t know what the correct answer is because I don’t know who they think I am. What if I say the wrong thing, and he knows right away that I’m lying? All I can do is tell the truth, I guess. “No. I was an only child.”
“And why is that?” When I frown in confusion, he clarifies. “Was your mother unable to have any more?”
“I really don’t know. I guess it just never happened for them.”
“Are your parents healthy?”
“As far as I know, yes. I don’t know of any history of illness in my family on either side.”
“And your parents, how many siblings do they have?”