Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
It’s a good thing I’m still paid up on the rent and my key still works in the locks. It’s not like I could go back to Colt’s apartment with blood on my face. I managed to sneak past the front desk before, but I don’t want to risk somebody deciding to pay attention tonight.
The apartment seems smaller than it did before. Already, spending time with Colt and Leni has made the life I lived for all those months seem pitiful and empty. Not like I saw it any other way before, but now it’s like everything’s much more obvious. There are times I wonder if this is where I belong, really—someplace cramped and worn down and bleak, without hope. How much better do I deserve?
At least the water is hot when I step into the shower after shedding my clothes. Once I’ve rinsed the blood off my face, I touch gentle fingers to where it hurts the worst, wincing when I make contact with the place where the side of my head hit the window.
If living through the destruction of my childhood home taught me anything, it’s that pain never lasts. I’ve almost forgotten all about it by the time I finish washing off and step out to dry. Hell, even the towels are better at Colt’s. Who am I kidding, telling myself I can go back to living like this when I now remember what it’s like to live better?
How am I supposed to go back to living like this when there’s still somebody out there determined to hurt Leni—even to kill her?
The snarl I wear when I meet my gaze in the mirror barely scratches the surface of how I’m feeling about whoever is after her. How am I supposed to find them? I can’t sit back and wait for them to try again. They might be successful next time. Tonight, we got lucky.
Though right now, I’m still sore as hell, and I wonder how lucky we actually are. I don’t feel that way when I lift my arms overhead to stretch out my aching muscles. How much worse does Leni feel? And what about Colt? Shit, I don’t even know if he woke up yet or not. I can’t sit around and wait. That’s not what I do.
By the time I’m dressed, I know what needs to happen next. I’m not going to hang around this shithole and hope my brother is okay. I’m going to go see for myself. First, I call Colt’s phone and hope he’ll answer. I probably should’ve done that sooner, but I’m not thinking clearly. It’s hard to keep things straight when all I want to do is hurt somebody.
It isn’t Colt who answers, but the sound of Leni’s voice is like a balm smoothed over my troubled soul. “It’s me,” I murmur, and her choked sob tells me how worried she had to be. Closing my eyes, I absorb the sound, and I know I don’t deserve it.
“Where have you been? I was so worried!”
“I went back to my place. Where are you? Is he okay?”
“They’re keeping him overnight at the hospital. He has a concussion, but I think he’ll be fine.”
“And you’re staying?”
“Yes, I have to be here,” she explains. “I would worry myself to death at home.”
“What room are you in?”
A soft gasp tells me she wasn’t expecting the question, and I don’t know how that’s possible. Like I wouldn’t want to be there. “It’s too risky.”
“Are you going to tell me where to find you, or am I going to walk around the hospital all night looking? There’s a lot less chance of me being spotted and questioned if I know exactly where to go, right?”
She keeps me waiting longer than I like but finally gives in the way I knew she would. “It’s 836. But there’s no way you’ll be able to get through without somebody asking who you are.”
“Let me worry about that. I’m pretty good at sneaking around in hospitals.”
When she makes a worried noise, I have to add, “You need to stop worrying so much about whether I can handle my shit. I’ll be there soon.”
Really, I should just be glad she cares. Yet another reason why I don’t deserve for her to care, because it annoys the hell out of me to have somebody hovering and asking questions. I take it personally, even though I know I probably shouldn’t. Maybe it’s all those years I spent without a mom—maybe I would be used to it if I had her in my life instead of a dad who wasn’t an example of good parenting in any way.
He’s the last thing I need to think about when I’m in a mood like this. He’s the last thing to think about ever, but his fingerprints are all over my life. He’s in everything I do—everything I think. He’s even in my scar tissue, since I wouldn’t have it if I didn’t want to punish him somehow for everything he did. I need to find a way to let go, but now is not the time. I have other shit on my mind.