Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 78732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
"Well, this whole fucking thing is starting to look like a complete waste of my time," she mutters.
From the sound of it, she would definitely give me advice on which type of fabric would work best in the Molotov cocktail.
"I can help," I offer.
"That would require you being here," she reminds me. "Pack a bag. This is going to be an all-nighter."
As much as I initially wanted to escape, now that there's a legitimate offer on the table, I'm a little hesitant to leave.
What if he feels the same and comes looking for me?
What if he decides to grovel and beg me to come back to his house and I'm not here?
What if he—
"Give me half an hour," I tell her before hanging up the phone. Let's be honest.
None of that is going to happen.
He didn't falter once when I told him I was going to leave. He offered me keys to a vehicle to get my ass out of his house faster. I didn't imagine that happening.
It's still a while until the sun begins to set, and I can tell by the urgency in my muscles that I have to be elsewhere when it happens. I know that Morgan's safety was threatened because of the choices that I made, but I trust what Ellis said about us being safe.
It doesn't stop me from pausing when I hear sounds outside as I pack my clothes. There's nothing outwardly different in my neighborhood than it has been any other time I've been here, but something just seems to continue to thicken the air, making my breaths come out faster. There's this sense of urgency that is scratching at my arms and legs.
I'm psyching myself up so much that I nearly forget to grab the dry-cleaning bag that has my Halloween costume in it.
I'm standing in the middle of my room, wondering what I might be forgetting, when my phone chimes with the alert that my Uber is just a few blocks away. I know I'm going to have to do something about the no-car situation because I'll be broke in less than a week if I have to keep paying for a car service to get me from one place to another.
Thankfully, there are no other strange cars on the road when I leave my house and lock the door behind me. The ride-share driver is a woman, and that offers me just a hint of gratefulness. The gender of a driver isn't something that I would've worried about before, but that has recently changed.
I think growing up in a small town, where men were expected to be chivalrous toward women and risked getting hit over the head with a frying pan by their mothers if there were ever whispers that they acted differently, gave me this false sense of security. Troy was a complete asshole to me at times, but he always opened the door, always placed his palm on my back to guide me places.
I always knew that there were bad men in the world but coming face-to-face with them in that warehouse made me open my eyes a little to just how the world could be. Honestly, although the threats were there, I was never mistreated by Dima or any of his goons. They never put their hands on me or struck me. I know just how bad things could've been, and I have to count myself lucky that Ellis came along when he did.
I shake my head as I settle into the backseat of the car, giving my driver a quick smile as I try to shove down all thoughts of the last week of my life.
Because we have to cross through one of the busier parts of town to get to Morgan’s house, it takes longer than half an hour to get there.
I complete the ride with yet another smile on my face and bid the driver to have a good day, dipping my head when she says it back as if the words are rote.
I shoulder my bag, hold the neck of the clothes hanger, and make my way to the front door.
I knock, growing a little frustrated in the heat when there's no answer.
I press the doorbell about fifteen times and still get no response.
My irritation only raises my blood pressure so far before I twist the doorknob and shove the damn door open, wincing when it swings back and bumps into the console table she has in her entryway.
I'm relieved when nothing topples to the granite floor and breaks.
As uncomfortable as I felt at my own house, I've always felt more uncomfortable when I visit Morgan’s place. There's a massive contrast between her life and mine, and the opulence of her massive house makes me wonder why she ever befriended me to begin with. It's not that I feel unworthy of being friends with someone the complete polar opposite of myself, but we literally come from two different worlds.