Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“My mom left this morning.”
“Uh-huh.” He seems a little distracted.
“You’re not inviting me over?”
“I’m working on my car.”
“Which one?”
“Samantha.”
I laugh. “Samantha?”
“I named my cars after the first woman I fucked in them.”
What the hell?
“How original.” I skip my exit. “Well, I’ll see you around.”
“Okay. Night.” He disconnects the call.
I floor it, speeding past my exit. Who says that to their fiancée? I have no desire to get into any of his cars ever again. Who the hell did he fuck in my dad’s Chevelle? He’s a grown adult. Why is he screwing women in his cars?
As soon as I pull into his driveway, I march to his garage, opening the access door and slamming it behind me.
“Watts,” he says from the pit under his car, country music blaring from the speaker. He peeks his head out, his blue tee clinging to his chest, grease on his face and arms. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you tonight.”
“What’s the Chevelle’s name? What’s your work car’s name? Do you have names for each of the rooms in your house?” I park my hands on my hips.
He hops out of the pit and grabs a towel, wiping his hands. “Are you hooking up on dating apps?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course not.”
“You’re losing your edge. Not gonna lie … I’m a little disappointed.” Tossing the towel aside, he takes a swig of cola from the can on his workbench.
“Are you bullshitting me? Did you lie to me about naming your cars after skanks?”
“Skanks?” He coughs after taking a swig. “Why do the women I date have to be skanks?”
“If grown women are fucking you in your cars, then they’re skanks.”
“I love you, Josephine Watts. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember.” He saunters toward me. “But if you joke about hooking up with men from your stupid little dating apps, then I’m going to get even. Now, we’re even.” His black boots hit the toes of my white sneakers.
“Your Corvette’s name isn’t Samantha.” It’s not a question. It’s … a confession of my gullibility.
He smirks.
I nod slowly, looking just past his shoulder as I unbutton my jeans.
“What are you doing?”
After toeing off my shoes, I shimmy out of the jeans and shrug off my tee, standing in front of him in my bra and panties. “I want you to name her Josie.”
Excitement spreads along his face as his smirk explodes into a full, ear-reaching smile. “Which one?”
My hands twist behind my back to unhook my bra. “All of them.”
“You’re a temptress. The devil in disguise.” He leans down to kiss me.
“You’re the devil! Murderer!”
I lean to the side, holding my hand up to stop him while pinching my eyes shut.
“What is it?” he asks.
I shake my head. “It’s …”
A voice. It’s the first time I’ve heard a voice in my head. So clear. So close. No vision. Just a voice. A girl screaming those words. A young girl.
“You’re the devil! Murderer!”
It’s so loud I can’t hear Colten. His lips move, but I can’t hear him. Again, I close my eyes. My hands press to the side of my head over my ears.
He cuffs my wrists, pulling my hands away from my face. “Josie!”
And then it’s silent in my head.
“Baby, look at me.” It’s barely an echo, but I hear Colten. “Tell me what’s happening.”
I shake my head.
“No. Don’t do that. Tell. Me. Tell me what you saw.”
I continue to shake my head. “I … I didn’t see. I … I heard a voice.”
“Whose voice?”
My gaze flits around the garage; I can’t focus. It’s nauseating. The voice. The young girl. What she screamed … it’s all nauseating.
“A girl,” I whisper, fisting my hands and hugging them to my chest so he doesn’t see me shaking.
Colten kisses my forehead. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” He retrieves my clothes from the floor and proceeds to dress me. I feel like a child. “What did the girl say?”
“S-she …” I shake my head. “She screamed. She called … she … she called me the devil.” Forcing my gaze to stay on his, I choke on my next words. “She called me a murderer.”
Colten’s brows draw tight, a smudge of grease on his cheek, pain in his eyes. “Him. Not you.”
I blink.
“Him. Not you,” he repeats.
I think of Dr. Byrd asking me not to say “I” when referring to him. But … it’s getting harder to separate the two in my mind since that life wants to infiltrate this one.
“Do you hear me?”
I nod.
“Him. Not you.”
I start to turn, but he hooks his arm around my waist, pulling my back to his chest while he buries his face into my neck. My bare neck … because I had my hair chopped off … because I’m slowly losing touch with reality.
“We’ll figure this out,” he whispers. “But you’re not alone.” His right hand slides from my stomach to my chest, his palm over my heart.