Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
She turns back to the sink, gripping the edge with both hands. “I don't need you to tell me what to do or how to feel.”
“Somebody has to. If you're not going to help yourself, fine. But I won’t stand by and let you make a mistake.”
“All of a sudden it's a mistake to want a job?”
“It's a mistake to do it just to piss me off.”
“Oh, is that what I was doing? Thanks for letting me know. There I was, thinking I wanted to be useful.”
“Try being useful to yourself, damn it. I can't spend the rest of my life making sure all the knives are present and accounted for.”
“Do me a favor and stop acting like you give a shit about me healing or whatever it is you’ve taken an interest in me for. We both know you're just my father's lap dog, and you're here just following orders.”
Her father’s dog. The words shouldn’t cut me the way they do–they’re just words flung at me by an angry, scared, spoiled little nobody. I can’t ignore their sting any more than I can ignore the steady plink, plink, plink of water dripping from the faucet. It’s the only sound in the room besides our breathing for what feels like an eternity.
Long enough for me to imagine walking away. I don’t need this. I have more than enough money saved to start a new life anywhere I want. She can fend for herself–we’ll see how far she gets. It’s a nice fantasy, but that’s all it is.
Callum wouldn’t stop until he tracked me down like the dog his daughter thinks I am. She’d go back to him, and he would support her rather than let her flounder the way she deserves. She doesn’t have the first clue what it means to fight for survival. To come home to a war-torn battlefield every day, to hold her breath when she hears footsteps overhead, to put herself in front of a flying fist for someone else’s protection.
She does, however, flinch when her phone buzzes. It’s been sitting on the counter all this time, face-up, and from where I’m standing, I can easily read the message in capital letters.
Jefferson: WHAT ARE YOU HIDING?? I’M GOING TO FIND YOU AND MAKE YOU WISH YOU HAD TOLD ME THE TRUTH A LONG TIME AGO!!!
“Why the hell didn’t you block his number yet?” I growl, reaching for the phone. However, she grabs it first and clutches it tight in her shaking hand.
“I don’t know.” I can barely hear her, she’s whispering so softly. I’m reminded instantly of what she’s fought against and that she has ghosts of her own she still battles. I’m not the only one in this house who knows the feeling of holding their breath for fear of what’s coming next.
“Do it now.” I cover her hand with one of mine, trying my best to soothe the ache I know she’s feeling. “There’s no need to put yourself through his torment. Let his screams and threats fall into the void.”
“You’re right.” She swipes at the tears that have begun to fall with her free and then goes through the motions of blocking that asshole’s number. Part of me wonders then that if she knew the truth, if she knew that I slit that bastard's throat for her sake, would she still think of me as the heartless asshole?
CHAPTER 8
TATUM
I take it back—all of it. I thought life was boring back at the mansion. Sitting in my room, watching TV, drifting in and out of sleep. That was my choice, though. It was how I needed to live. I didn't have it in me to put on a happy face and pretend everything was okay. Not only that, but I felt dirty, used, and ashamed.
I thought that if I was feeling this way, everyone else could see it, too. I was trying to hide from the world. I wanted solitude, silence. I couldn't handle the emotional exhaustion of being who I used to be, no matter how much I wanted to be her. I still do, even though I'm pretty sure that part of me died.
After wasting the last few months on my depression, anxiety, and fear, the last thing I want to do is spend the rest of however long we're going to be here hiding in the house. Romero wants me to heal? That's not going to happen. Not within these four walls, especially since I can barely do anything in this house without running into him.
I've been thinking about it ever since Austin and Dex came over a few nights ago. No, it's not like I meant it when I said I wanted to get a job. I was just trying to get under Romero's skin, to shake him up a little bit. I'm sick to death of his calm, cool, untouchable attitude. It's like nails running down a chalkboard, but a million times worse. My entire soul cringes at how self-assured and closed off he is.