Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“You could be less of a dick,” Cesare said after dropping off Whitney’s food.
“I could,” I agreed, tipping up my coffee to drain the last of it, annoyed to find it not sweet enough.
Years inside with somewhat limited access to sugar, I found myself craving it since I’d gotten out.
“She’s not one of us,” Cesare reasoned.
“Noticed that,” I agreed. “What’s your point?”
“That she’s hurt and confused and scared, and maybe being an asshole isn’t the right move.”
“Luckily don’t have complaint cards for her to fill out,” I said, reaching for my phone, figuring it was time to call Lorenzo, whether or not his baby kept him up all night.
And it was right about then that she started to scream bloody fucking murder.
“I got it,” I said, holding up a hand as Cesare stiffened.
“Well, are you going to get it this lifetime?” he asked when I didn’t rush right in.
There was no rush.
We hadn’t done a whole fuckuva lot to update the place, but we had drilled some holes into the walls and blown in some thick fucking insulation to muffle the noises of people being treated without proper anesthetic.
It helped that we were on the ground level, too, with the two buildings next door not having basement levels.
“Sounds like she needs to get it out of her system,” I added, shrugging.
“Salvatore,” Cesare said, brows raised.
“Alright. I’ll go,” I said, moving out from behind the desk and toward the exam room.
“You done?” I asked as her gaze fell on me while I leaned back against the door.
I could see just how wrong that choice of words was almost the moment they were out of my mouth.
She went from freaked out to enraged in one second flat.
“Am I done?” she hissed.
“That’s what I said,” I said, nodding, doubling down.
“Am I done?” she repeated. “Ah, that will be a no. No, I’m definitely not done since I am being held against my will and treated by some guy named Surgeon who I am pretty sure has never spent a day in medical school.”
“Got me there,” I agreed.
“Just let me go home,” she said, her tone both defeated and pleading, creating this strange stabbing of guilt in my gut.
I wasn’t someone who struggled with a lot of guilt. Maybe Alessa getting taken while on my watch being the only thing in recent memory that I felt like shit about.
As a whole, though, I did what I did and I didn’t overthink it.
Guilt was a fucking useless emotion. Why would I waste my time on it?
“No,” I said despite the strange churning in my stomach that I was going to go ahead and let myself blame on too-strong coffee and not enough food.
That one word seemed to wipe away all traces of defeat and pleading.
She yanked relentlessly at the cuff that she didn’t seem to realize was attached to a ring anchored in the wall, a ring whose strength had been tested by men twice her size thrashing with every bit of pain and rage in their bodies as I sliced parts of them off or stitched parts of them back together.
“Stupid… fucking… ass… hats,” she hissed as she yanked harder. “Shitting… dickhead…”
“Shitting dickhead,” I repeated, unable to stop the chuckle that bubbled up and burst out.
“Gee, sorry. I’m not up-to-date on my acceptable criminal profanities,” Whitney said, staring daggers at me. “I’m a teacher, not a gang member.”
“I thought you were a waitress,” I said, knowing engaging with her was probably not the right move, but now she had my attention. “That dress I peeled off of you had an apron. And there was a wad of cash stored with your tits.”
At that, her pretty face went almost tomato-red as she suddenly realized all the thrashing about had made the blanket slide down her body, exposing her plain beige bra and the tits that were just barely contained by it.
It seemed to be the age of the ass-man.
But I’d always loved a great rack.
I liked more than a handful, if I could find it.
And Whitney? Yeah, she had that going for her.
“You’re going to pull your stitches,” I warned her as she tried to use the arm near her damaged shoulder to grab the blanket. “Told you,” I said when she stubbornly kept trying only to let out a hiss of pain.
Pushing off of the door, I made my way over toward her.
“Don’t touch me,” she snapped, her tone sharp, but her chin was trembling.
“You want your tits tucked away or not?” I asked, reaching for the blanket. “I’m not bitching about the view,” I added, “But seems like you’re not comfortable with the goods being and display.”
She refused to respond to that, so I took it as permission to tuck the blanket more firmly around her.
“Did you take my money?” she asked, and something in her tone had my gaze jerking up to her face.