Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56508 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56508 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
I pause typing, a shudder moving through me, the memory like acid biting into me.
He showed me his phone. He’d taken a photo of my private areas. Then he told me that, from now on, I would do all his history work for him. I’m struggling so much to keep up with my own work as it is. Plus, I’ve got a small cleaning job at college. I don’t know what to do. I really care about my degree.
Three dots appear. A dreamy, silly part of me imagines Luca flooding with rage. Not just rage at the situation in general but rage for me specifically. I imagine him wanting to protect me, his woman. It’s absolutely insane. These relationships exist in the pages of my books, like Abelard and Heloise in the twelfth century, defying their very society to be together, but not now, not in my life.
You don’t deserve this, Ruby. I’m going to make this right.
What are you going to do?
You don’t need to worry about it, he replies. Trust me. You won’t be completing that asshole’s college work, and that photo is never going to see the light of day.
Relief instantly washes through me, though I know I should be more careful. I don’t know this man. All I know is that during my studies of organized criminal groups, they’ve often been known to exhibit police-like behavior. However, they can act on much less information than the police. Who knows if anything would happen if I went to the cops with the blackmailing stuff, but with Luca, weirdly, I feel confident.
Do I need to do anything? I ask.
No, he replies.
Why are you helping me?
…
I bite my lip as the three dots appear on the screen. All sorts of silly ideas pop into my head, imagining his response. Because I know we belong together, Ruby. I don’t care if it sounds crazy. I know you’re my woman. Maybe—and this is bad, the fact I want it—he wants sexual favors in return for helping me. That is so wrong, but a tingle dances up between my legs at the thought.
Bend over. Show me your ass. Now he’s taking down his gym shorts in my mind. I’m going to take you any damn way I want. Never mind that I have next to no experience.
…
Again, with the three dots, leaving me to stare with pathetic hunger, honestly. Pathetic. I’ve never been much of a dater, and what, I think I’m going to start with the mafioso king, prince, whatever-he-is, Luca Marino?
I don’t like bullies, he replies.
I let out a sigh. It feels like a weirdly anticlimactic answer, not that I have any right to expect anything from him.
Are you sure there’s nothing I can do? I text.
Downstairs, Mom raises her voice. “I thought this could work. I really did.”
I try not to let myself listen. They’ve been going around in circles for months, according to Lexi. Knowing her, she’s kept the worst from me. I’m sure there have been far more fights and stress than she’s let on.
When his reply comes, I imagine him smirking. You seem pretty keen to offer something in return, Ruby. But seriously, don’t worry. He violated you. He drugged you. He’s a lowlife. If anything, you’re doing ME a favor by letting me handle this.
Oh, okay, I reply.
This is my version of putting myself out there, of painting my face with outlandish makeup and wearing the sexiest outfit I own, which, upon reflection, isn’t even sexy. I don’t own clothes like that.
There’s a knock at my door. For some reason, I quickly hide my phone, though it’s not like Mom or Dad are in the habit of wrestling it from me and checking it.
“Yeah?” I call.
“It’s me,” Mom says quietly.
“Come in.”
She pushes the door open. Unlike Lexi and me, Mom is on the more slender side. Her hair is dyed brown, but her gray roots are showing. Her eyes are red and bloodshot from crying. She winces when the door slams from downstairs.
Mom and Dad have never hit each other, not once, but the arguments get way, way too violent in different ways. The broken plates. The holes in the walls. The general atmosphere is that something terrible is going to happen.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Mom mutters.
“I wish you’d talk like grownups,” I tell her.
“Like grownups,” Mom repeats, rolling her eyes in a way that makes me feel small and not at all respected. “It’s a complicated situation. There’s… a lot between us.”
“Maybe that’s true, but I don’t see how breaking plates and yelling will help.”
Mom drags both hands through her hair. I was very alert to Mom’s moods and gestures when I was little. I’d hang on every single one, watching closely, as if I could fix her if I only knew the right words. Then, one day, Lexi told me, “She notices you watching her, kid. She does it on purpose. It’s gonna hurt, but you’ve got to stop paying her attention.”