Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
There was a couch to one wall, brown, the faux leather scratched, the stuffing poking out, and the cushions sloping toward the center, like the springs or the wood had broken.
No rug.
No pillows.
A coffee table that looked to be third or fourth hand, scuffed, and covered in bills. Most of them in shades of pink or yellow. Warnings.
I wasn’t surprised by that. Everything about her response to having access to my kind of money suggested that she had struggled. Likely for a long time.
Despite myself and the uncertain situation, a part of me went out to her for that. It must have felt like drowning, like no matter how much you tried to surface, you could never fully keep your head above water.
To the right of the living room was the smallest fucking kitchen I had ever seen. I mean, could it even really be called a kitchen? It was more like a kitchenette corner, just a couple of cabinets, a small range, a sink, and an apartment-sized fridge.
To the left was a short hallway that I found myself walking down, my heart hammering more than I expected it to.
What was that?
Worry?
Anticipation?
Hope?
All three?
The bathroom was almost as small as the kitchen, and I was almost sure that if you wanted to open the door while inside of it, you would need to step into the tub to do it.
No wonder she’d eye-fucked my tub so hard, why she’d taken the chance to sink into a bath when she had it.
Fuck.
That was not a memory I needed in my head right that moment.
The only other door in the short hallway was cracked ever so slightly.
If she was home, this was it.
Nerves jangled in my bones as my hand moved out, pushing the door open… to yet another too-small space.
It wasn’t much.
More white walls. A window, but facing another building this time. A full-sized bed with a nightstand beside it.
And on that bed, a very still-looking Avery.
I took it all in in a blink.
The bottle of prescription pills on the nightstand, top off, next to a bottle of water.
I didn’t stop to think.
I flew into the space, grabbing the pill bottle that wasn’t prescribed to her but seemed to contain a powerful fucking sedative.
“Avery,” I hissed. Then, louder, worry growing, “Avery!”
Reaching out, I grabbed her shoulders, shaking her alarmingly limp body.
“Fuck. Avery, wake the fuck up,” I demanded, dropping my ass onto the bed beside her, yanking her upward, my hands patting her cheeks. Lightly, then a little harder when I got no reaction.
Other things didn’t escape me right then either.
The raw, red cheeks. From the tears streaming down them. The swollen eyelids that said that the crying had gone on for a long time, likely until she’d fallen asleep.
It was right then that I was sure that my mom, Lorenzo, and the others were probably right.
She hadn’t done this job because she wanted to, because she was some criminal mastermind and amazing actress.
She did it because she had to.
I knew it down to my fucking bones.
And here she was, so deeply unconscious with a bottle of pills, and I was fucking terrified she’d overdosed.
“Avery, wake up, baby,” I demanded, giving her a hard shake.
At that, she let out a grumbling sound that allowed me to feel like I could breathe again.
“Baby, wake up,” I demanded, giving her another shake.
That finally had her eyes slitting open, bloodshot and unseeing.
When her gaze landed on me, though, she let out a whimper.
“Avery, come on. Snap out of it. How many pills did you take?” I asked, reaching out toward her eyelid and pushing it open, something that had her jerking her head away.
My hand moved down, pressing into her neck instead, feeling for her heartbeat.
“You’re not here,” she said, sounding groggy.
“Yes, I am. How many pills did you take?”
“He gave me one,” she said, making me tense.
He?
Who the fuck was he?
It wasn’t concern that got to me. Like some dude might be hiding out, ready to off me.
It was goddamn jealousy.
Who was he? What was he to her?
“You’re sure? Just one?” I asked, reaching for the bottle again, studying the label with a clearer mind. Benzos and a high milligram for someone who didn’t regularly use them, likely prescribed to someone who had worked up to a higher maintenance dose, not for a small woman who never used it before.
“Why are you here?” she asked, a little slurred, but getting more alert.
“How long ago did you take the pill?”
“Dunno,” she said. “Tired,” she said, slow blinking at me.
She was alright.
Drugged but alright.
Her breathing was okay. Her heart rate was alright.
She was just really sedated.
She had to sleep it off.
“Okay,” I agreed. “Go back to sleep.”
“You’re not really here anyway,” she said, speaking to herself as she turned over on her side again.
Exhaling hard, I pulled the blankets up over her, then grabbed the pills, and took them out of the room.