Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
I deflate upon seeing a clawfoot tub that’s probably been here for a century. Jude sets my shampoo, conditioner, and body wash on the floor by the tub and then dumps the rest of my stuff on the counter beside the sink.
I stare at the wall above the sink, trying to figure out what’s missing. The dated wallpaper is brighter in the shape of a large rectangle. It finally hits me.
No mirror.
Of course not.
There goes any and all hope for heated floors.
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out my question. “Where’s the mirror?”
Jude slowly turns to face me. His head cocks slightly to the side, eyes burning into me from beyond his mask. All he needs is a butcher knife from the kitchen and he has the whole horror vibe on lock.
Everything in me is yelling, “Run, you idiot! Run as fast as you can!”
My feet remain rooted in place. I hold my ground as he prowls toward me. His towering frame looms over me, our chests nearly touching. I swallow but refuse to retreat.
“Where’s the mirror?” I ask again, voice slightly raspy.
“I hate mirrors,” he bites out, gesturing at his mask. “Obviously.”
Asshole.
He pokes a finger in the center of my chest and easily pushes me out of the way. As soon as he passes through the doorway, he drops his hand and puts distance between us. Absently, I rub at the spot on my chest, wondering if it’ll bruise.
“Dinner is always at six sharp. I’ll have Violet bring you your lunch and I’ll fetch you for dinner. In the meantime, don’t wander. This is a big house with lots of places to get lost. Keep Fucky on a leash.”
With those maddening words, he storms out of the bedroom, letting the door slam after him. I jump at the abrupt sound cutting through the otherwise quiet. Seconds later, his words catch up to me.
Keep Fucky on a leash.
Ugh, major asshole!
“His name’s Funky,” I grumble under my breath, “and we don’t own a leash.”
My cat hops up onto the bed and then settles himself beside the empty suitcase. He watches me with curious eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I tell my furry friend. “We went from princes to paupers.”
I snigger at my pun. We’ll always be Tate and Funky Prince even if we no longer have a taste of the sweet life. Heated bathroom floors.
I move the suitcase and then make sure the carrier door is open in case my cat needs to do his business. Since I have nothing else to do, I stretch out on the bed and stare up at the yellow, water-stained ceiling.
How are these people so rich yet they have a house like this in such need of repair?
Jude probably wouldn’t let any workers in anyway. I bet he fires them all before they start. Another surge of irritation burns in my gut. At least my worry and fear have subsided. Anger is a good emotion for me. It makes me feel strong and I absolutely need to be at my strongest right now.
I can endure this.
Hell, I endured much worse before.
Both my dad and Sean tested every limit I had. I’m still here. A survivor. An overcomer.
Speaking of Sean, I wonder if he’s tried to call me. It feels empowering, though, knowing my phone is shut off and tucked away in the side zipper of the suitcase. Sean can’t reach me. I don’t have to face his ugly texts or hear his cruel messages.
It’s not much, but it gives me enough relief that I’m able to fall asleep.
I wake to someone’s voice, jerking upright in a panic.
It takes me a moment to familiarize myself with my surroundings. Guest room at Jude’s haunted house. Right. Lovely.
The voice in question, though, isn’t Jude.
It’s an older woman.
“Knock-knock,” she says, slowly opening the door with one hand. “Jude said you’d want lunch in your room.”
The old woman with white hair and a friendly smile enters my room carrying a tray. Curiosity gets the best of me and I’m pleased to see a croissant sandwich, a pickle, some orange slices, and a piece of what looks like apple pie. There’s also a water carafe, a glass with ice, a coffee mug, and a stainless-steel gooseneck coffee pot.
“I’m Violet,” the woman says as she sets the tray down at the desk in the corner. “I cook for the fellas and make sure they’re taken care of.” Pride shines in her expression. It warms my heart.
“Fellas?”
“Not just Jude here. Wyatt. Jude’s grandfather. He’s wheelchair-bound but still a firecracker.”
My initial fear of Jude and this house fades into the background. At least there are witnesses here. Violet seems nice.
I slide off the bed, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, and make my way over to the food. “Wow, this looks great. Thank you.”
She beams with happiness. “The pie is Jude’s favorite. Let me know your favorite and I’ll make it for you.”