Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
I guess I’d underestimated him and his anger about the loss of the job.
In my defense, though, who the hell would ever expect someone to try to murder them over a job?
“Surprise!” he said, voice full of that wicked glee like that guy in The Shining.
“Ritchie, open the door. You don’t want to do this,” I told him as I tried not to move my arm too much as I reached into my bag, trying to find my phone.
I couldn’t say if he saw the movement, or if someone simply cut him off in traffic, but Ritchie slammed on the brake, making the contents of my bag spill all over the seat and floor.
I was about to reach for my phone, fuck the consequences, when it slid up under the driver’s seat.
Damnit.
I felt the hysteria rise up, needing to tamp it back down. I couldn’t lose my cool. I had to stay focused. I could still get myself out of this.
I needed a weapon.
I had… perfume. Which would work in his eyes if he looked at me. There was a pen. Another eye-type weapon. Then… my keys.
My keys.
With the tracking device.
There was a slight sense of relief at seeing that, at knowing that, eventually, Brock was going to know where I was.
The problem was… I wanted to be alive when he found me.
So I had to try to get myself free.
Without a proper weapon, I did the only thing I could do.
I flew forward and wrapped my hands around his throat, pressing as hard as I could, since I had no idea where I was supposed to press to make him pass out.
Undeterred, Ritchie turned the car into a lot, and slammed on the brake.
Surely, that was what made my vision spin.
It didn’t quite explain why my head was starting to feel fuzzy, though. Why my heart, that should have been hammering with my anxiety and fear, seemed to be going slower and slower.
What was going on?
“How was that coffee, Miranda?” Ritchie asked as he pulled out of my suddenly weak hold.
I couldn’t stop it. My gaze flew back toward the coffee in the holder. The coffee I’d thought Mitchell had brought me, so I’d gone ahead and had several big sips.
He’d put something in my drink?
Had that been how he was able to get me lax enough to slit my wrist the last time? Had I opened the door because I’d known him, invited him in? Or had I left with him, gotten coffee with him? Perhaps under the guise of making amends?
I could have fallen for that.
Then, once he had me drugged, he could have easily overpowered me.
It would explain the alley too, right? If I’d left willingly with him. That would be a convenient place to shove me, to slice into me, then leave me to die.
A choked whimper escaped me as another wave of dizziness coursed through me, making nausea swirl through my belly and up my throat.
“You’re starting to feel it, aren’t you?” Ritchie asked, smiling as he put the car into park and turned to look back at me. “Don’t worry. I didn’t give you too much. I want you to come back to me in a little while. Once we get where we’re going,” he added, shooting me a smirk as I tried to move across the seat toward the door again, but my body wasn’t moving like it should have. I was getting slow, clumsy, and, God, sleepy.
No.
I couldn’t sleep.
But there seemed to be no fighting it as the moments wore on.
The last thought in my mind, though, as my face lolled into the backseat, was that Brock was going to come for me.
I just hoped he wasn’t too late.
Consciousness came to me slowly, seeming only to touch on one sense at a time.
I heard first, some whooshing sound, like a loud fan, maybe. Behind that, the sounds of traffic, some sort of thumping rock music, and my own breathing. Which, arguably, seemed louder than everything else.
My eyes refused to open, my lips heavy and stubborn, but I felt cool air wash over me, kicking up my hair, making a shiver course through my slow, lazy body.
The fan, maybe?
Oscillating.
Then there was the tightness around my upper chest and around my hips.
Bindings, maybe.
Scent was next.
The problem was, I couldn’t place the scents I smelled. Something I knew, sure, but hadn’t been exposed to in years. And just under that smell was something strong, something that made my nose feel like it was burning.
Where the hell was I?
How long had I been unconscious?
Why were my eyes still refusing to open, and my body so weighted and numb?
My brain was still fuzzy, my thoughts feeling like they were treading through molasses to fully form, to start making any kind of sense.
After what felt like an hour of trying to convince my eyelids to open, they finally started to, and the light in the room at least gave me a small clue at how long I’d been unconscious.