Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 55093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 275(@200wpm)___ 220(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 275(@200wpm)___ 220(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
I hadn’t seen or heard from her in the past few weeks so I’m guessing she was okay. The gossip mill hadn’t churned out anything about her or her mother and I’d kept my ear to the ground just in case. It seems maybe Bronson had taken care of them after all and I could give up that worry at least. I’d bought the company fair and square yes, but I wouldn’t have been comfortable knowing that I was taking food out of her mouth. That’s not the kind of man I am, and besides, I would never hold her accountable for the actions of her old man.
“Fuck it!” I gave into the temptation and switched on the tube, going straight to that show I’d been watching repeats of on YouTube. I took a swig of beer as the commentator ran through the night’s headlines and almost choked. “Which ex-socialite has been selling her drawers to pay the bills since her dad died, leaving her penniless?” My heart froze when a smiling picture of her face flashed across the screen.
I listened with half an ear as the asshole grinned through the latest bit of gossip meant to hurt and abase. I don’t think I blinked as he went through the story of how a source had told them where to look for evidence. He held up a pink box, which he opened to reveal a little slip of a dress. The piece of shit then showed another picture of her wearing that same dress at a party in Vegas. “Fuck me!”
I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I call her? I’ve had her number for days, fighting the urge to just call her up and see how she was doing. The decision was made when the next announcement was made just before they broke for commercial. “When we come back, we’ll tell you the real story of how the late Timothy Bronson exited this world, and the illegal dealings that led this once great man to take his own life.
I was out of the chair and headed for the door after grabbing my keys from the side table. Dammit, I should’ve gone to her before this happened. Already I was cleaning up the fallout in my head. Someone had talked and I’ll find out who, but for now I needed to get to her, to make sure she was okay. I could still see her face that last day, looking so lost and alone.
Why hadn’t I done something then? It wasn’t the fact that she was selling her clothes to live that had me running to her, I admire the fuck out of her for that. But what they were about to reveal could very well destroy her. Was she watching? I hope not. But what was to stop someone else from telling her about it.
I had the fleeting thought that I should call the station and have the show pulled for tonight, but that’s not how this shit works. For one, it was not my station, and for another, no way are they going to pull a show that I was sure was bringing in viewers by the millions. People love this shit; the misery of others. Like fucking vultures picking over a carcass.
I drove like hell through the as not yet familiar streets. Her home was only about a five-minute drive away from mine, but since I was still new to the area and my driver was usually the one with this headache, I had to pick my way through the dark night.
Luckily traffic was almost nonexistent so my ninety miles per hour posed no danger to anyone else but myself, and a tree.
I didn’t stop to think why it was so important for me to get to her. Why I felt the need to protect her from this shit. And why the fuck was she selling her shit? Was it really that bad? What the fuck did Bronson do? And why hadn’t she come to me? Why would she Jason? She doesn’t know you, what the fuck, are you thinking?
All kinds of danger signals went off in my head but I ignored them as I raced down the driveway to her. I had her face superimposed on my mind. It wasn’t the feisty sassy look either, but that last one, the one that keeps ripping a hole in my heart. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here. We’re not friends, not lovers, hell we’re not even acquaintances, probably closer to enemies since she seems to blame me for her dad’s fuck-ups.
None of that seemed to matter now though, not as much as getting to her. Every light was on in the house as I slammed out of the car and hurried to the door. I rang the doorbell twice before I heard footsteps on the other side. I prepared myself for the sight of her, but all preparation flew out the window when she pulled the door open. Her face was ravaged, her eyes red. “Why are you crying?”