Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
She nods and takes the card. There’s enough for my order and maybe another coffee later. I stuff the card in my pocket and pull out a crinkled dollar bill for the tip jar.
A few minutes later someone calls my name. I collect my order at the counter and turn around. Every seat in the tiny cafe is jammed full of travelers with their carry-on bags. To keep the green mist of jealousy at bay, I head downstairs and reclaim my bench by the window.
I don’t want to go home. Obviously, I can’t stay here forever, though. Not every security guard will be as friendly as gift card guy. I bite into my scone. Crumbs tumble down my chin, landing on my chest. I brush them off my sweatshirt and take a sip of my iced coffee. The fake, cherry-chocolate sweetness floods my mouth and I almost gag. Why couldn’t I order plain iced coffee like a normal person?
“Feeling better?”
This time I smile up at the security guard. I lift my drink. “Much. Thank you, again.”
“No problem.” He pats his pocket. “I’m one of the Airport Angels. We keep a stash of cards to hand out to weary-looking travelers.”
“Wow. That’s, uh, really nice of you.”
He shrugs.
Unsure of what else to say, I sip my coffee again. This time, the unusual flavor isn’t as shocking to my tongue.
“You need me to call anyone for you?” he asks.
“No.” I pull my cell phone out of my sweatshirt pocket and check the battery life. Not wanting to deal with any “where are you” texts from Remy, I put it in airplane mode when the Uber dropped me off. Still have forty-five percent. Did I even grab my charger when I left the house?
“All good.” No idea who I’ll call when I finally decide what to do but I don’t want to impose on this stranger any longer.
“My name’s Nathan. If you need anything.” He glances over his shoulder toward the ticket counter where a customer’s raising his voice at the person in line behind him.
“Thanks, Nathan.” I don’t feel like giving him my name and he doesn’t ask.
He wanders toward the grumpy travelers, stopping to speak into a radio clipped to his shoulder.
That’s enough fun at the airport. It’s time to figure out my next move before I get into trouble for loitering.
I’m not ready to throw myself into the unknown, yet. As much as I hate it, the pain in my heart can’t be soothed by running away.
CHAPTER TWO
Griff
A cloud of vanilla mist surrounds me. Molly. I breathe deeper and move closer to her warm body.
But she’s not there.
I hug a cold pillow to my chest. The bitter scent of cheap detergent fills my nose—not vanilla.
Confused and groggy, I bolt upright.
Shadowy darkness surrounds me. The barest hint of the rising sun peeks around the heavy gray drapes. High in the corner of the room, the steady red, blinking light reminds me I’m being observed like a science project.
“Fuck,” I groan. Still stuck in this fucking mansion having my every move filmed for the dumb reality show I signed up for.
I fall back against my pillows and stare at the ceiling. This isn’t the first time I’ve had a dream about Molly, only to be shocked into the cold reality that I’m locked in this golden prison.
Embarrassed, I flick my gaze to the camera again. Pointed right at me. The soulless red light blinks, almost as if it’s mocking my misery.
I hope to fuck I haven’t been talking in my sleep. I turn my head and glance at the photo on my nightstand, touch my finger to the glass over Molly’s face.
Miss you, Muffin.
God, I hope I win this thing and get home to my girl. Make up for all the time we’re missing together.
Someone bangs on my bedroom door.
For fuck’s sake. What now? We’re not supposed to be downstairs until ten a.m.
“Stonewall!” Bang, bang, bang.
“What?” I shout.
“Office. Phone call.”
Phone call? From who? What office?
I hurry out of bed and open the door. “A phone call for me? Who?”
Deadass—my fellow contestant and a certifiable dumbass—stares at me with a dopey expression and shrugs. “Cops? I didn’t ask questions. Jordan asked me to come get you and here I am.”
“All right. Give me a minute.”
I should slam the door in his face but my mind’s going over all the possibilities. Did something happen to Molly? Remy? We’re not allowed any phone calls. Why’d they allow this one?
Stone-cold fear grips me.
It has to be my mother. Why else would the police be involved?
Dread settles in my stomach. The last time we spoke, I was an asshole to her. It’s not like we’ve ever had normal mother-son conversations, though.
Five minutes later, one of the producers I recognize—Jordan—meets me.
“Follow me, Griff.” His pinched, squinty expression seems extra annoyed this morning.