Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Pushing back my chair, I get to my feet. “Thanks, but no thanks.” Her eyebrows pinch together, but I don’t wait for her to smooth out her face. “Thanks for the advice,” I say, already making my way to the door.
Outside, I drag in air. My chest aches with every breath. I check the time on the clock in the square. I take my chronic medication twice a day and three times when there’s a need. I shake two pills from the bottle and swallow them dry. Finally, out of options, I head home.
On the way, I stop at the corner grocer to stock up on salad and fresh fruit but stop when I pass by the wine. I hesitate. Normally, I don’t drink much alcohol with my condition except when I go out for dinner, but I can do with a glass. Not that I can afford the wine right now. On second thought, I grab a bottle of Merlot and my favorite chocolate-coated nuts and pay for the luxuries with Ian’s money.
At home, I go straight to the bathroom, undressing on the way and discarding my clothes on the living room floor. I run a bath, close the blinds, light a candle, and open the wine.
Soaking in the tub, I eat all the chocolates and down the bottle. The buzz blissfully dulls my senses, and soon my eyelids droop. I’m so damn tired. I can’t come up with any plans of self-salvation. I’ll think better after a few solid hours of sleep.
I drain the bath and wrap a towel around myself. Not bothering to wash the bath, I go to my bedroom. All I want is to drop down onto the mattress and lose myself to sleep. In the doorframe, I pause. I’m drunk, but not so much that I don’t register the white box lying on my bed.
My heart slams into my ribs, my tiredness evaporating in a flash. My pulse spikes as I look around. My door was locked. No one broke in. I’m alone in the apartment. Still, I fling open every closet and cupboard and check under the bed. I double-check that I’ve locked the door before hurrying back to the room where I stare at the box with the familiar logo.
I reach out carefully, as if it’s a snake that can bite, and lift the lid. Inside, fitting snugly in the plastic cutout backing, lies a brand new iPhone.
Chapter 7
Ian
My brother barges through the door, letting it slam against the wall. Ruben follows with heavy thuds of his Caterpillars in Leon’s wake.
I lower the book I’m reading at the kitchen table to acknowledge my sibling’s brooding face as he storms across the floor. He’s younger than me by only eighteen months. When I look at the flex of his jaw and the flash of his eyes, I see myself. That is, minus the lack of control. I’ve always had a better handle on my emotions. We have the same complexion, the same dark hair and eyes, and the same build and height. We’re both as comfortable in leather and jeans as in a power suit. The only difference is my haircut and tattoos. I guess I’ve always been more rebellious, the bad influence who led my brother astray.
It’s that guilt, that ever-present feeling of responsibility for the course his life has taken, that makes me push back my irritation when he kicks a chair and circles the floor with his face tilted to the ceiling.
“Fuck,” he says to the sky.
Ruben hovers at the far end of the room, his thumbs hooked into the loops of his waistband.
I don’t speak. I let Leon get a grip on his anger, but I give him my full attention by marking the page with a dog ear before closing the book and sliding it over the table. I don’t have to wait long.
After a second, Leon rolls his shoulders. The denim jacket stretches over his back as he leans his palms on the chair on my right and hangs his head. It takes another second before he lifts his gaze to me.
His eyes spit fire. “You could’ve gotten us killed.”
“You’re here, aren’t you?” I drawl.
Ruben shuffles his feet.
Leon flings the chair aside, sending it crashing into the wall. “Over a fucking woman.”
It’s not the broken chair that makes me push to my feet. It’s his choice of words. “Careful, brother. This time, we came close, so I’ll let it slide, but don’t insult her again.”
He stares at me as if I’m sprouting a dick on my forehead. “I can’t believe you did that. I can’t believe you compromised our plan, a plan I worked out to every meticulous detail and fucking second, to go after a woman. A stranger.”
“Is the money in Lesotho?” I ask.
“We crossed the border without any problems,” Ruben says in his nasal voice.