Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“You have got to be kidding me!’ I growl, feeling duped. I stare up at the place where the Uber driver dropped me off with anger seeping out of my pores. The Museum of Art.
“Nice joke,” I grumble, feeling like a fool for actually obeying him. I should have sent him a text, telling him to piss off. I was not going to take his orders any longer. I didn’t care about the contract or what was going to happen to Christine’s life of sisterhood. The more time that passed, the more I realized it wasn’t worth it. Here I am, doing God knows what to help her, when she can’t even pick up the phone and talk to me. Clearly, I was wrong about how strong our friendship was to begin with.
I toss the card with the address on it and turn to hail a cab home when Fredrick pops up out of nowhere.
“Ms. Stone.”
“What, you here to snap a pic to take back to your leader? Show him I fell for this shit? Well, have at it, pal.” I lift both my hands and give him two middle fingers.
“If you can follow me, please,” he says, then walks back to where he came from.
“What? Why? Where are you going?” I yell to his back. In typical Fredrick fashion, he doesn’t wait for me, or respond. He gives me no choice but to leave or follow. Of course, I follow. It takes me a few steps to catch up to him. By the time I do, he’s opening a door at the side entrance and waiting for me to walk through.
“Where are we going? Isn’t this place, like, closed? Or is this a setup? A way to get rid of me? Set me up for trespassing?” He looks like he’s debating it. I stop. Yeah, I’m not going in there.
“If I wanted to get rid of you, I wouldn’t put this much effort into it. Now, please. He’s waiting.” That answer does not settle the uncertainty swirling in my stomach. “Will you be coming in or not, Ms. Stone?”
Run or take my chances… Run or take my chances… “Oh hell, I’m coming,” I say, surprising myself. I step inside and listen as the door falls shut. Fredrick is once again on the move, and I’m struggling to keep up with him.
“If this is your idea of wearing me out so it’s harder for me to struggle later, it’s not working. I have the stamina of a bull,” I say, semi out of breath. Where in heavens is he taking me? We walk through a bunch of back hallways, and I try to memorize the way just in case. Finally, he opens a door, and we pop out into a large open room. Dozens of lit candles illuminate the room, a warm flickering glow hitting the artwork displayed against the walls.
“Where are—?”
“Thank you, Fredrick. I won’t be needing you the rest of the night.”
I whip my head to the left, spotting Damien. He’s standing just a few feet away, in his typical suit attire, his hands hidden within his pants pockets. Goosebumps splay over my skin at how damn delicious he looks.
“Jensen.” My name falls from his perfect lips, his deep voice causing my traitorous nipples to perk. I want to deny the way he makes me feel, stick to the fact that he’s an arrogant jerk, but my body doesn’t seem to want to stick to the plan at all.
“Why am I here? What are you up to now, besides illegal entry of a famous art museum?”
He takes a step toward me. “I have a friend who owes me a favor. Did you bring the box?” Another step closer, and my cheeks start to feel hot.
I pull the box out of my bag. “This one? What is it? Something to help me comply? Be a better pet?”
Another step. “Depends. Do you want to be my pet?”
Goddammit. My thighs begin to tremble. I will be no one’s pet, but…to be his, all his… “Not a chance,” I reply, an unfamiliar hoarseness in my tone.
My false words don’t go unnoticed as he smiles, taking one last step, leaving barely a hairsbreadth between us. “Open the box.”
I want to rebel. Tell him no just to spite him. But my body wants to do anything to please him. His smile widens. He knows he’ll win. He waits while I give in and begin to unwrap the box. When I get a peek at what’s underneath, my breath seizes in my lungs.
“What…what is this?” I barely get the words out as I tear the final piece of wrapping away from the box. I look up. “Damien, this is a—”
“Do you like it?”
I look back down at the box, and the Leica M10 Digital Rangefinder Camera stares back at me. Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve been in love with photography. I would make my dad take me all over town to the electronic shops to play with all the models. My dad would smile as I pretended I was famous, taking my still shots. He would fill my heart with promise, telling me my own work would hang in a famous gallery one day. Back then, we couldn’t afford an expensive camera, but when luck struck, my dad would bring home an old camera someone was selling at a garage sale. It wasn’t the new flashy model I had just played with at the store. It was better. It had history. When the time came when I could afford one on my own, I wasn’t going to put my money on the newest models. The fancy ones with the fastest shutter speed and memory. I would go in search for the old fashion models. The ones that took photos just like in the olden days, capturing life’s moments in its purity.