Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
“I’m pissed.”
“I could see that.”
“Pearl, my car is at the lights, abandoned, and I have no way of moving it.”
That was kind of my point. To buy myself some time. Fury knows that.
“With a trunk full of guns.”
“Oh,” I breathe, cringing.
“I need those keys, Pearl, and I need you to get your ass back here under my watch.”
“Okay,” I say, if only to appease him. I hang up and send a mental prayer to the skies that the police don’t stumble upon Fury before I can get the keys back to him.
* * *
Ten minutes later, the cab pulls up, and I lean forward, handing the driver triple the fare and Fury’s keys. “I need you to take these keys back to where you picked me up from.”
The cabbie frowns as he accepts the money and the keys. “And give them to who?”
“There’s a big, angry-looking Viking by an abandoned Mercedes. You won’t miss him.” I hop out and look up at the tower. My heart speeds up. I take the steps and enter the vast lobby, glancing around as I wander through.
“Can I help you?”
I turn toward the voice, finding a mature man in a pristine gray suit. He’s looking me up and down. Concluding that I don’t belong here. “I’m here to see Mr. Black,” I say, making my voice strong and my back straight.
He blinks, surprised, and takes me in again, from head to toe. He’s thinking I’m not Mr. Black’s usual type. “Oh, I see, a guest of Mr. Black’s.” He clears his throat and looks around the lobby, before smiling brightly and sweeping an arm out. “This way, miss.”
“Thank you.” I let him guide me to the elevators, call one for me, and hold the door while I step inside. He presses the button for the twenty-ninth floor. “Enjoy your stay, miss.”
I stare at him, my heart heavy. I’m a part of the process. How many women has he shown up to the twenty-ninth floor in the past forty-eight hours? I rest back against the wall, closing my eyes to stop the building tears from escaping.
Part of the process . . .
* * *
“Look pretty, my darling girl,” Mother says as she buttons up my cardigan. “Look pretty and smile.” She pulls the collar of my pale blue-striped dress over the top and pats it down. “That’s what we must always do.”
“We smile when we’re unhappy?” I ask, mystified by this. Mother’s hands falter on her sweeping up-do as she smooths it with a palm spritzed with hairspray for the hundredth time since she pinned it up an hour ago.
Then she laughs lightly. “My darling, I am very happy.” She comes to me, crouching to get her face level with mine. She taps the end of my nose with her fingertip, her red lips stretched wide. “You are too curious for a little girl. We must control that.”
“Yes, Mother.” I smile at her necklace, reaching forward and touching the creamy stone. A giant pearl surrounded by small rubies.
“One day it will be yours, my darling. Now, then. Go and say hello to your father and his guests. Then you must go to your bedroom and play quietly. We must not interrupt your father’s poker evening.”
“Okay,” I say, not asking what Mother will be doing. She will be sitting quietly beside my father, smiling on tap. Laughing when prompted. Being the perfect, silent wife.
She takes my shoulders and leads me into the drawing room. It always confuses me why we call it a drawing room when I am never allowed to do any drawing in it.
I enter the large, elaborate space and immediately feel all eyes on me. “Ah, here they are.” Father pops his fat cigar in his mouth and smiles at us. “Come, come, say hello to my friends.”
I look at father’s friends. All men. All with women by their sides who appear to be mute. And young. All so young. I know Father is older than my mother, but whenever I have asked, Mother has always told me not to be curious, as curiosity is troublesome. Especially in women.
The men will play cards. The women will sit in a square and sip champagne. “Hello,” I say when presented to them. I get endless plumes of rancid cigar smoke breathed all over me as they all look me up and down.
“Beautiful like her mother,” one says.
I feel my mother’s hands tighten on my shoulders, and I look up at her. She nods. Instruction. “Thank you,” I say as Father claims me from Mother’s hold and wraps one of his big arms around my shoulders, pulling me in close.
He drops a kiss on top of my head, sniffing, and sits, pulling me down onto his knee, and Mother takes that as her cue to join the ladies on the other side of the drawing room. “Tell me about the deal,” he says to a friend, pulling on his fat cigar.