Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 145942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 730(@200wpm)___ 584(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 730(@200wpm)___ 584(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
I keep my eyes trained on the stairs as my heart thunders in my chest. The slightest noise will have Carver’s toned as fuck ass down here in the blink of an eye. I’ve never been one to do things quietly. I’ve always wanted to go out with a bang, so this doesn’t come naturally to me, but when the door completely opens without a sound, a small sliver of relief pulses through me.
Now all I have to do is crawl out of this fucking thing.
I get my ass out of the cupboard and get to my feet only to keep myself crouched down as much as possible. I rise up onto my tippy-toes because for some reason, my brain tells me that tippy-toes equals silence, and after letting out a shaky breath, I bolt across the room, terrified of giving myself away.
My fingers curl around the door handle and I quickly push it open, holding my breath because … why not?
The door pushes back into a darkened room and I quickly step down into it, feeling my whole world beginning to right itself when I realize that I was right. It’s a fucking garage, and more than that, it’s fully stocked. So fucking stocked that it’ll be hard to find what I’m looking for—not that I even know what that is.
It’s a four-car garage and in the space directly in front of me, there’s an old car sitting pretty, and for a second, my heart races into gear, more than ready to throw myself into it and barge through yet another garage door until I realize that the whole fucking motor is in pieces on the ground to my right.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter to myself, flicking the lock on the back of the door and putting the smallest barrier between me and Carver, despite the fact that he could knock this door down just by looking at it the wrong way.
My gaze shifts over the garage as my hands shake at my sides.
What should I do? What the mother-effing hell do I do?
Hurrying over to the shelving, I release the knife and start scrambling through boxes, coming up with nothing but tools and old rags. The guy who owns this must be some sort of mechanic. Coming up blank, I spin around and look over the rest of the garage. I hurry past a second row of shelving when my gaze lingers on a stack of old cardboard boxes, but it’s not exactly the boxes I’m looking at, more the oddly familiar, weatherproof fabric sprawled across the floor behind them.
My brows crease as I make my way around the boxes and take in the way the weatherproof fabric is draped over something almost like a cover … a fucking motorcycle cover.
I race toward it, gripping the fabric with both hands before tearing it off and fearing the worst. There’s a good possibility that whatever is under this cover is in just as many pieces as the car motor behind me.
The cover drops to the ground beside me revealing an old road bike that looks as though it’s been sitting here for years.
Fuck, yes.
It could be in better condition, but for now, it’s a solid escape plan.
I step into the side of the bike, looking over it and checking for a key, only there isn’t one.
My head snaps up to the workbench across the garage and I race to it, desperately searching, a little more recklessly than I should be. Tools clatter around, but hopefully with the internal door closed, Carver can’t hear me upstairs … but the real question is, is he even still up there? Maybe he’s finished looking.
I have to make this fast.
I tear open drawers, leaving a mess behind, but my desperation soon pays off as I find the bike key hanging from a small hook on the side of the workbench. “Sweet baby Jesus. Yes,” I hiss under my breath, curling my hand around the keys, feeling myself one step closer to freedom.
I’m nearly there. I just have to figure out how to turn the fucking bike on, open the garage, and get the fuck out of here without alerting the mega ass upstairs.
It’s impossible.
This bike is bound to rumble through the whole fucking cabin with vibrations rocking through the foundations as the garage door peeling back will most likely squeal or hum, or fuck, knowing my luck, it’ll probably set off a goddamn alarm that specifically says, ‘The bitch is getting away. The bitch is getting away. The bitch is getting away.’
Hell, not to mention that there’s a good chance that the bike won’t even start. It could be out of gas or it could just choke and die in the ass. There are so many risks involved with making some kind of bullshit escape plan, all of which draw Carver’s attention right to me, but it’s the only shot I’ve got.