Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“Nonononono,” my boyfriend hysterically howls. “She didn’t leave! She wouldn’t leave! Not again!”
Both of our bodies propel themselves in that direction only to be abruptly stopped by a weapon drawn, pale, round faced man. We both halt in our tracks; however, instinctively, I hold out an arm in front of The Kid, preparing to use my body to shield his.
“Glad his plan to draw you here worked,” the platinum blond, curly haired male vilely announces. “Now…” he keeps his position steady, aim wisely on Kipp, “where’s the bitch?”
A loud, unexpected cracking sound echoes throughout the area as his frame unpredictably crumples to the ground at our feet.
Our attention instantly shifts to where our girlfriend is holding a shovel like a bat while leering over his body. “She’s. Right. Fucking. Here.”
Chapter 7
Kipp
Guns are loud.
For your ears.
For your neighbors’ ears.
Pets.
Strays.
Wildlife.
Plus, they have kickback, and they jam, and they misfire, and they have safety measures or levers you gotta remember to turn off or know how to turn off in order for them to be effective.
But tools?
Tools are quiet.
They don’t make a fucking sound for anyone other than you and the person or people you’re with and that’s exactly what we need in this situation.
The pale man from the cemetery whips his face wildly back and forth forcing me to grab a fist full of his damp hair to hold him steady.
Guy’s dripping more oil than an old pinto.
I get him having the sweats.
Getting caught, captured, and tortured when you’re not trained for it is terrifying shit.
That would make anyone leak engine fluid from both ends.
And he has.
First, he pissed himself the second he woke up in our shed.
Again…who could fucking blame him?
Opening your eyes to my boyfriend’s hand around your throat to help pin you in place while me and my girlfriend zip tie your ass to an old chair in a toolshed where no one can hear you scream or beg for mercy or forgiveness is…pretty goddamn horrifying.
But so is a surprise attack at a fucking graveyard.
The same graveyard you stole my mother’s corpse from because you work for a sick fuck.
Post successfully pissing on Nolan’s shoes – mine barely stayed out of the splash zone – he gurgled on his own vomit, further proving he’s probably in a bit over his head.
Like I said, both of the leaks make sense.
It’s whatever shit he’s got pouring from his curly hair and slathered all over his Jesse’s Jetta white skin that’s fucking me up.
Is it rehydrated soap?
Conditioner?
Did he fucking bathe in sunscreen?
Wedging the cobra pliers deeper into his mouth, I work my wrist to secure the clamp onto another top tooth, meet his blue glare with mine, and ruthlessly yank backwards, ripping the off-white object cleanly out of place.
Blood curdling screams echo around the space as I drop it in the old drain pan Bunny is proudly holding.
If anyone should be proud, it should be us.
Not only did she not run when it would’ve been the perfect time to, she saved our asses.
Hit this asshole in the head hard enough to immobilize him.
And instead of letting us kill him with his own gun before burying his body – we were already in a cemetery – she insisted we take him somewhere.
Ask him questions.
See if maybe he’ll cough up something we or Garcia can actually fucking use to our advantage.
Maybe get us on the same lap as McAdams instead of stalling behind.
When all Nolan and I could see was rage, she managed to keep calm and focused.
Prove she wants to protect us…what we have…as much as we do.
It’s the kind of shit that makes me and Nolan wanna simultaneously drop to our knees and feast for hours.
Race to see who can have her crossing the orgasm line first.
Unfortunately, that can’t happen until after we finish up our work here.
And I don’t care what anyone says.
Torture is work.
Even when you find pleasure in it.
Red streams seeping past the corners of his mouth to mix with his tears, create a sight that prompts me to resume my interrogation. “Where. Is. My. Mom’s. Body?”
Choked sobs and hyperventilating sounds – both of which feel like test drive demonstrations rather than anything real – are expelled around his stuttered response, “I…I…I…d-d-d-don’t…kn-n-n-now.”
“I don’t believe you.” Pulling his head backwards by a second fist full precedes me jamming the tool back into his crimson coated mouth. “Let’s see what your molar has to say.”
“Nooooooooo!!” escapes in a muffled croak due to the grip portion of the pliers latching onto the aforementioned location. “Pweasenodomistome!”
This time I decide to prolong the process.
Tug and tug and tug.
Toy with the nerve.
Play with the pressure.
Extend the agony while intensely watching tears flow freely from his bulging stare, wanting – fuck that – needing to paint something in this situation right.
Prove there’s something here for the woman I lost too soon in life to be proud of.