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 saved him?
My beautiful, tortured Jude?
As my left hand comes free, I let out a cry of relief. He moves on to the next one. Once he’s untied my hands, he disappears out of sight to work on my legs. Now that my arms are free and I can draw them to me, my muscles begin to quiver out of control.
Soon I’ll be out of here.
The cops can haul that bastard away and this will all be over.
It’s then I begin to smell something. Something bad and sinister considering our situation. Gas.
“Jude,” I croak out.
My warning is too late. Jude may have got a few hits on Sean, but he clearly didn’t incapacitate him. And while Jude was focused on me, Sean took his own opportunity.
Sean staggers out of the kitchen into my view and backs himself toward the front door. “Saved?” he sneers, gesturing wildly at us with an unlit match in his hand. “Nothing can save you now.”
Jude
I’m vibrating with anger and the desire to rip Baker’s head clear off his shoulders, but helping Tate is the main priority. Then I can fuck Baker up.
As I help Tate slide off the table, I keep an eye on the motherfucker who hurt my man. He’s standing in the doorway of the apartment, an evil sneer on his face.
Two things happen at once. I smell gas and then I see Baker strike a match. The flame is small and insignificant, but I know the second he tosses it, we could be in real trouble.
Baker’s eyes meet mine as he flicks it into the living room. It lands on the sofa and goes out. Tate is throwing on his clothes as I take a step toward Baker.
“Don’t,” he warns, striking another match, this time threatening to toss it into the kitchen. “I really don’t want to have to do this to you again, Jude.”
Again?
Tate, who’s now dressed, clutches onto my arm and squeezes. “Just leave, Sean. Go back home to your family.”
The match goes out and burns Baker’s finger. He curses and quickly strikes another one.
“You know,” Baker says, eyes searing into me. “You’re a real piece of work. Your mom’s death could have been avoided had you”—he points a finger at us and waggles it between me and Tate—“figured this out in high school.”
This time, he tosses the match into the living room. It doesn’t go out and ignites a puff of cotton stuffing that’s been torn from the couch.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I demand, voice shaking. “Mom died because I couldn’t get to her quickly enough.”
The familiar pain sears my heart. I was too late. I’ll never in a million years forgive myself for that.
“You weren’t even supposed to be there.” He tosses another match into the living room. “I fucking bawled my eyes out when I learned you’d skipped school and almost died with that meddling bitch.”
I shudder at his words. I’m unable to speak as my mind whirls at his confession. Tate takes a step out in front of me as though he can shield me from this motherfucker. I hate that I allow him to do just that.
Baker lights another match and flings it onto the carpet in front of him. It quickly catches fire and spreads over the cheap material. Although the flames are small, I’m being transported to the worst night of my life.
I can’t move.
I can barely breathe.
“W-What are you saying?” I manage to croak out.
Baker shakes his head and barks out a sinister laugh. “You always looked at my dick, Jude. I didn’t fucking imagine it. You’re the whole reason I found out I like guys too. That night...” He claws at his hair before angrily striking another match. “That night, I got the balls to finally act on the mutual feeling. You were asleep, but I was trying to wake you up.”
What in the ever-loving fuck is he talking about?
“Just let us leave, Sean. It’s not too late.” Tate starts toward the kitchen, but Baker stops him by tossing the match toward the stove.
A hot blast of heat sends Tate hurtling into me. The two of us land in a heap. I gape in horror at the flames that are now billowing out of the kitchen and spreading all too quickly up walls and across the carpet. The smoke alarm shrieks from nearby.
“She walked in on me,” Baker yells, pain and fury dripping from his tone. “Said I fucking ‘sexually assaulted you’ since you were asleep. Told me to leave and that she would be pressing charges.”
I remember the weekend before the fire. Baker stayed over. We got into Mom’s liquor, got drunk, and I passed out. He was gone by morning.
That next day, Mom asked if I was gay and was acting strangely.
With the flames and smoke burning through the small apartment, I can barely make out Baker’s form in the doorway. His voice is loud and clear. Tate is tugging at me and speaking inaudible words. I’m unable to move or respond.