Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 69102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
It takes me a minute to remember where I am when Vincent clears his throat.
I look up at him, look around. We’re back at Giovanni’s house. In his garage.
“I want to go home,” I say, even though I know it’s pointless.
“Giovanni wants you here.”
I shake my head. “He said home.”
“I need you to go into the house now.”
I look down at my lap, at my hands. At the seat beside me. “Where’s my purse?”
“You didn’t bring one.”
“Oh.”
He clears his throat again. I climb out of the car and walk into the house because I can’t leave. He won’t let me. Once we’re inside, I go into the living room and go behind the bar to look for a bottle of whiskey. He has several. I find the brand I know, the one my father used to drink, and I pull it out to pour myself some.
That’s when I see the shiny pistol hidden there, behind the bottles. I touch it, pull it forward. But I leave it alone and take my drink. I drink it down, all of it, forcing myself to swallow, to not choke.
I then take the bottle and the glass and bypass Vincent, who is standing in the hallway, and climb the stairs up to Giovanni’s bedroom. There, I pour myself another glass and strip off this stupid dress and put my shorts and shirt back on that I’d worn earlier today.
I go into the bathroom and wash off my makeup. I scrub my face so hard that it feels too dry afterward. I brush out my hair and pull it into a ponytail. It’s messy, but I don’t care. Back in the bedroom, I pour another glass of whiskey and lie down on the bed. I can smell us on it. I smell sex. I smell him. It makes me want him again.
God, what is wrong with me?
Lesser of two evils, but not really. Evil is still evil.
I force myself to sit up, to stand. Looking around, I find my shoes and slip them on. They’re ballet flats. Soft and comfortable. They’re more for inside, but they’ll do better than the four-inch heels. Reaching into my pocket, I take out that scrap of paper Giovanni gave me and read the address where Nan and my father are, then shove it away and open the drawer in the dresser where I’d found the cash when he’d left me here alone all day. I don’t have my purse, my wallet. I don’t know where they are, so I have no choice. I only take what I need. Picking up the bottle of whiskey and my glass, I go back downstairs.
I’m quiet. I know Vincent is here somewhere, but I don’t see him. With the pretense of replacing the bottle, I reach for the pistol, make sure it’s loaded, and slip it into the waistband of my shorts. It’s bigger than I’m used to, heavier too, and it feels awkward, but it doesn’t matter. My shirt covers it.
Taking my glass, I walk quietly to the French doors that lead to the garden. There’s a slight breeze. It rustles the leaves of the trees.
I walk toward the swimming pool, slip off my shoes, and dip one foot in the water. There’s movement inside the house. A glance tells me it’s Vincent, so I sit at the edge of the pool and let my legs hang in the water. I look down into it, into the deep end. It’s where I almost drowned. Where he saved me. Where he said he wouldn’t let me go.
And where I’m sitting, this is the spot where Giovanni made love to me.
He mostly fucks me, but sometimes he makes love. I like it when he does, but it’s strange. It makes me feel out of control, and at the same time, it feels right. Feels like that’s how it should be. Like when a man touches a woman, it shouldn’t always be to hurt.
Giovanni doesn’t hurt me—no, that’s not true. He does hurt me, but because I want him to. Because he makes me come. He was right the other night. I can only come when I’m hurt.
But tonight, he betrayed me, and now, Alessandro knows where I am. He’ll come for me. He’ll come to finish the job he started. I escaped him once, but that won’t happen again. My luck ran out that night four years ago. I used it up when I somehow managed to crawl out of that basement window. When I managed to move at all, to walk, after what they did.
I shake my head, block the memory. Shove it back into its box.
I can’t let it out. I won’t survive if I do. If I start seeing them again, seeing their faces, feeling the weight of them on me, their sweat, smelling their smells, feeling them inside me…I can’t. I’ll drown if I do.