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)
“So two, assuming the hits were fatal?” he says, and I nod my confirmation. I’m a good shot. I aimed for their heads but bobbing on a jet ski on the ocean isn’t a marksman’s friend. “You okay?” Danny asks, looking me up and down.
“Dandy, but I really need a drink.” I squeeze the throttle and wince again, blinking back the haze. Not red, not anger.
Pain.
My stomach turns as I watch Danny maneuver the ski, heading back to Byron’s Reach, and the moment he’s turned away from me, I give in to the nausea, throwing up into the sea. “Shit,” I curse, watching Danny and James getting farther away. I peek down at my wetsuit, feeling at the hole, hissing. Blood spurts out. I’m no doctor, but the rate of loss isn’t reassuring. I shake my head, my vision clears, and I hit the throttle, squeezing the seat with my thighs, holding on for dear life as I zoom across the water.
It's the longest fucking journey of my life. The shore seems to get closer before drifting away again, the people in the distance close but miles away.
I eventually pull up onto the shore, faster than I should, wedging my jet ski into the seabed, and I slide off. “Fuck,” I mutter, reaching back with my good hand and pulling down the zip of my wetsuit, swaying, blinking, my legs heavy as I walk through the water, trying to make it onto the beach. I see two of everything. Danny, James, Beau, Otto, and Ringo. Hear nothing but slow, undistinguishable words that sound like groans as I pull the top of my wetsuit down. The pressure of it squeezing my body is making me feel sick.
The relief is instant.
Before the pain flares, my stomach turns, and I black out.
Red.
2
Present Day – Miami
* * *
BRAD
* * *
“Fucking hell,” I breathe as I catapult up in bed, drenched in sweat. The moment I register where I am, I breathe out my relief and fall back to the pillow, my shoulder throbbing. But I don’t close my eyes.
No red today.
Fuck me, it’s been six months, and every single fucking night, the same damn dream. Sometimes daydreams too. And when will this pain fuck off? I roll my shoulder, looking down at the scar, and throw the covers back, angry, getting up and pulling my cell off charge. It’s not even six. I went to bed precisely two hours ago. I don’t know how much longer I can take this deprivation.
And yet . . . I can’t fucking sleep.
I need to have a word with the contractors who are turning my apartment from a bomb site—literally—to an apartment again. Danny’s dirty great big mansion—my temporary accommodation—is like a pressure pot. And so fucking busy.
Pulling on some shorts and sneakers, I rake a hand through my hair and make my way down to the gym, stopping off in the kitchen. I absentmindedly go through the motions of making a coffee, focusing on the sounds of the birds tweeting, watching the sun rising over the tall trees that line the boundary wall of the mansion. Another day. “Another dollar,” I muse, lifting the black liquid to my lips, sipping.
I spot the dogs in the distance, rounding the side of the pool. They’re excited, running back and forth.
Red.
“Fuck.” I blink, catching sight of Pearl in the distance following Cindy and Barbie, tossing a ball and catching it as they circle her legs, begging her to throw it. Bare legs. My eyes climb them, my cup at my lips, until I’m looking at the beacon of fire-red hair. Except this morning it’s tied back, revealing her dainty neck. Her bare lips are stretched, her smile wide. It’s a stark contrast to the girl I found beaten on a dirty mattress in a hangar waiting to be sold.
I swallow and relax where I stand, lowering my cup, having a stern word with myself. You’re old enough to be her fucking father. “Remember that, Brad,” I say to myself, unable to tear my eyes away. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman so robust. And yet I saw her let her walls down briefly when she held my hand. When I looked into her eyes.
What’s her story?
I hate myself for being curious.
“Remember what?”
I jerk and spin, spilling my coffee all over my hand. “Fuck.” Steam rises from my skin, my flesh instantly pink. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I discard my cup and shake my hand as Beau snatches a tea towel off the stove handle—expertly hung there by Esther, no doubt—and holds it under the cold faucet, before laying it over my burning limb. “Fuck, that’s sore.”
“Stop whining,” she says, smiling down as she holds the cold cloth over the wound. I wrinkle my nose and grunt an apology as I stare at Beau’s heavily scarred arm. I should not be bitching about a small scold in front of a woman who is scarred for life by fire. “Who were you talking to?” she asks.