Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“Too long,” he grunts and then leaves the room. The sound of a key turning inside the lock is so loud it’s damn near oppressive.
My shoulders fall in defeat. I’m locked inside a room with nothing but a bed and a nightstand with a shitty lamp on top of it that looks like a Goodwill cast off. And tacos. My stomach growls as a reminder. I eat the tacos, swallowing down the spicy meat with a scowl. They’re kind of good, and at least it’s food, fuel for whatever comes next.
I look around the room again, inspecting every inch of it in search of something. A weapon, a trap door. Anything. There’s a window, and I try to open it to find it’s nailed shut. And has bars on the outside. Figures. “Motherfucker!” I smack the window, pissed off it wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped.
But not easy doesn’t mean impossible. I peek through the curtains to check out my surroundings. It’s dark outside, and a large tree obscures just about everything except part of a red car.
“Think, Cassidy, goddammit, think!”
I don’t know how much time passes before the door opens, and Tiny sticks his giant head in the small opening.
“Keep these guys happy. Or else.” He slams the door, and it echoes in the room like I’m in a cavern or something.
Left alone with my thoughts, I can’t think of anything but who the fuck these guys are. Do they plan to whore me out? Sell my body until I’m a broken shell of a woman, and if so, then what? I move toward the door and press my ear to it, hearing an unfamiliar voice issue instructions.
“You motherfuckers have paid for time. You get twenty minutes to do whatever you want short of killing the bitch. Have fun.” The man speaking sounds happy as he gives instructions, and my shaky legs carry me back to the other side of the room.
A few minutes later, the door opens and a short and pudgy guy stares at me. He’s bigger by at least fifty pounds. I can’t see his face until he steps inside and pushes the door shut with a quiet click. He has straight dark hair, medium-brown skin, and a look in his eyes that’s fucking terrifying.
“Hey.” He flashes a nervous smile, and suddenly, it all becomes clear.
I look around the room again, noting the details. The single bed. The nightstand with one drawer. Oh, my fucking God. No. Absolutely not. That is not happening. I won’t let it. I stand to my full height and cross my arms.
“Don’t be nervous, sweetheart. This will be over soon.” His smile turns menacing because he knows what I know. There’s no place to run or hide. He takes a step forward, and then another, and another, until he’s right in front of me, trapping me between him and the wall.
My hands ball into fists, and I prepare to raise my leg to knee this fucker as hard as I can in the balls, but he shocks me first with a punch that sends my head flying into the wall before I slide to the floor.
“Fuck,” I groan and scramble to my feet.
He walks slowly, confident he has the upper hand as he looms over me. He’s got me on weight and grabs my hair, yanking me back.
“Don’t make this too easy, sweetheart.”
“I won’t,” I growl in reply, punching him right in the dick as hard as I can.
“Bitch,” he grunts, releasing me to cup his sore dick.
“Asshole,” I shoot back and kick him in the face. I feel proud, but I know it’s not over. I try to step around him to check the door, but he grabs my ankle, and I fall face-first.
“Nice shot,” he says, yanking me toward him.
My eyes go wide because I’m sure he’s about to tear my clothes and have his way with me, but he doesn’t.
He smiles. Again. Then rears his fist back to punch me in the face again. And again. And again.
Pain radiates all over my face, and the back of my head stings from hitting the floor. I scratch his arms, and he rears back, getting to his feet to kick me in the ribs. Twice. I’m hurting, and I don’t know if I can take much more of this. Half of me wishes he would just end my suffering, but the other, more logical part of me says to keep fighting. It’s better to die fighting than just letting that shit happen.
Two knocks sound on the door, and the man lifts me up, still smiling. “Not bad,” he grins and then spits in my face before releasing me and marching to the door. “You put up a good fight.”
I’m breathing heavily, listening as he knocks, and the door opens before closing again a few seconds later.