Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
"He... he hurt me," she cried, waving her hand with the knife toward Thomas's body.
"I know. I know he did. And you had every right to do that. But our judicial system hasn't been great about this kind of thing. Victims who kill their captors end up in jail. You don't deserve that. Take the money out of his wallet. Get a hotel room. Take a shower, get all the blood off. Dry your hair. Then walk to the police like the rest of the girls likely are, okay? Then tell them your story. But leave out this part. This part was me. Tell them that."
"But you don't deserve to be behind bars either."
"I don't think I have long," I told her, desperately trying to suck in the right amount of air. Failing miserably. "It's okay. Don't worry about me. Wipe off that knife then hand it to me. Then find a shirt, and help put that one on me."
Thankfully, she didn't fight. Her survival instinct was as strong as mine had needed to be for a long time.
She ran off, finding a shirt, pulling off the blood-stained one, swiping off the blood from her neck and arms and legs with it, then coming over to help me put it on since I was barely able to raise my arm on my own anymore.
"I need your pants," she mumbled, pulling me out of my lightheaded stupor.
"What?"
"Your pants. I need your pants. I can't go to a hotel without pants."
That was true.
So she took my pants.
And my boots.
She gave me one long last look. "Thank you," she told me, then tore out of the house.
Alone, I lowered myself down to the floor, finding a small bit of relief in laying flat even as I felt blood moving up my throat, making me turn my head to the side to cough it up.
This was how I was going to die.
Of all the ways, it could have been worse.
It could have been more drawn out.
It could have been something as sad as a car wreck or terminal disease.
At least I was going to go out in a blaze of glory.
At least I took these bastards with me.
It wasn't a terrible death.
I found a small bit of comfort in that as the blood kept coming, as my chest got tighter, as my eyes started to close.
I found an image behind them in those last moments of consciousness.
Piercing eyes.
Cocky smile.
Calloused fingers.
A raspy, sexy voice.
Vance.
Consciousness came to me slowly, a place I had to claw myself to from somewhere deep, somewhere floating and cool and numb.
I'd never done drugs, but I was pretty sure I knew high when I felt it.
I was really, really high.
I tried lifting my head from the pillow, finding it lolling to the side instead.
My eyes stayed stubbornly closed through all of this, a strange weight holding them closed.
Sound came first.
The quiet chattering of the television. The footsteps from the other side of a closed door. The beep of a monitor.
A monitor.
Holden had a decent amount of medical supplies. Stitching kits, prescription drugs, casting material, braces, even a defibrillator.
But he didn't have monitors.
If there were monitors, I was in a hospital.
That thought seemed to be enough to push the drug stupor away, allowing me to surface, jerking awake, relieved beyond belief to find my wrists weren't attached to the rails of the bed with handcuffs.
The cops hadn't gotten me.
But if it wasn't the cops, who was it then?
"Thank fuck you got friends with deep pockets," Holden's voice called to me, deep and familiar and more soothing than I could have anticipated. "Because you got no idea how fucking expensive your surgery was."
"Surgery," I repeated, blinking my eyes open, finding him sitting there at my bedside. Things were hazy, but starting to clear.
The mission.
The house.
The missed signs.
The fall.
The fight.
The girl.
The surety of my death.
"I punctured a lung," I guessed, thinking of the tight chest, the screaming pain, the blood.
"You never do shit by half. Small puncture could just mean a re-inflated lung. Just a tube. Not a huge deal. But you did a good job. Nice big fucking hole that meant they had to open you up to repair the damage. Recovery is going to suck."
"Am I in a real hospital?"
"As opposed to an imaginary one?"
"I know there are doctors that can be bought. Facilities that can be used." For the right price.
"Don't have connections like that."
Glancing around the room, I made sure we were alone. "What about the blood?"
"Couldn't save your modesty kid. Had to get you clean. Then get you here. Was it just Thomas?" he asked, voice rough, closest to emotional I had ever heard.
"No. I got them all."
"Not what I meant, kid. You know what I mean."
"I don't," I countered, shaking my head a little, finding my vision a bit swimmy with too much motion.