Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128585 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 643(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128585 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 643(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
I slipped off my jacket and wrapped it around her. A breath lodged in my throat at the sight of her in my jacket. She was slim, and my jacket bloody drowned her. But I liked the sight of her in it. Fuck, I could smell my cologne mixing with her perfume, and I held her fucking tighter.
Blood soaked into my shirt as she lay flush against me, but I didn’t fucking care. I tapped my foot on the floor. My bastard skin itched with the need to get her to safety.
I just needed to get her to my motherfucking house.
The minute we turned from the main road to the church grounds, I let myself breathe. When we stopped at the house, I launched the fuck out of the car and ran for the front door. The doctor was waiting. He knew not to fuck me about, and I paid him a fuck-ton of money to be at my beck and call.
“My bedroom,” I ordered and rushed her inside. I laid Cheska on my bed and reluctantly moved out of the doctor’s way. But I kept her fucking hand in mine. Kept my fingers wrapped around hers. I couldn’t fucking take my eyes off her, lying there on the bed.
My fucking bed.
Dark hair.
Green-brown eyes that always saw me and … “Arthur … I’ve found you … I’ve finally found you …”
Her voice. Her raspy posh voice as she staggered into my office, and the fucking state of her as she fell to the ground.
Cheska.
Cheska, who I had left in Oxford just over a year ago never to fucking see again. The doctor started cleaning her up, and I needed a drink. I needed a fucking large drink and a drag of my cig.
I released her hand and pushed out of the room. I stared at my hand as I walked down the hallway. It was still warm. Even losing blood, she’d warmed my fucking hand. I went straight to the bar and poured myself a huge whisky and downed half the glass. Memories fucking assaulted me. Memories that I both tried to forget and needed to fuel me.
I’d gone to her the day they’d all been killed. The day Dad got shot by the fucking Russians. My eyes drifted in the direction of my old man’s bedroom, where he still lay. Still in a fucking coma, body atrophied and paralysed. No sign of ever coming out of it.
Cheska.
Fucking Cheska Harlow-Wright.
I heard my front door open and knew who it would be. A few seconds later, Eric, Charlie, Vinnie and Freddie came inside. They were all looking at me, waiting for something.
“WHAT?” I roared, not about to deal with their shit. I was on a fucking knife’s edge. I was feeling too much. I chose not to feel anything but the hate-fuelled fire inside me these days. She was fucking with my mind. Cheska being here and hurt and fucking seeking me out after a year apart was fucking with my head.
“Firstly, calm your tits, psycho,” Eric said, crossing his arms across his chest. “And secondly, your old bird stumbles into the club, beaten and stabbed, and you ask ‘what?’”
I pulled out my cigs and sparked one up. I took a deep inhale, the nicotine hitting my veins and giving me a second of fucking reprieve.
“She burst into the club, ran right through the fucking bouncers and into the dance floor.” Charlie poured himself a brandy beside me. “Not bad for a bird who’d been stabbed.” He smirked at me. “Tenacious little thing, isn’t she?”
“She came for you,” Vinnie said, speaking directly as always. “She came looking for you, Artie.” He tapped the side of his eyes. “Her eyes. Her eyes changed when they saw you. Like Pearl’s do when she looks at me.” Vinnie slipped his hands into his pockets and started whistling “Ring a Ring o’ Roses”, his eyes now on the landscape painting of some country house on the wall.
“Isn’t she getting married soon or something? I’ve seen their mugs all over the society pages,” Freddie asked, sitting down in an armchair.
“You scan the fucking society pages?” Eric said to Freddie, hiding a smile with his hand.
“Most of the fuckers who owe us money are on those pages, dickhead. I keep track of them so they don’t try and dodge town. Those pages seem to know more about the richies than even their own families do.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you were all here,” Betsy said, coming into the room. “I thought you were at the club tonight.” She frowned as she looked at us all, then straightened her shoulders. “What’s happened?”
Charlie tipped his head in my direction. “Cheska Harlow-Wright. What else could rock our fearless leader like this?” Betsy’s eyes widened, and I knew the fucker had been speaking about me to his sister. Between that and the smart-arsed comments, I was about five seconds away from knocking off his head.