Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
One hand produced a knife and pressed it to Joel’s throat. The other held him against his body. An actual human shield.
Joel froze.
Not that there was anything he could do, anyway.
The kid was all skin and bones.
The attacker wasn’t super tall, but he was bulky, strong. There was no getting away from him if you didn’t at least have some kind of training.
“Let him go. He’s no use to you,” I said, inching around as he kept moving, arching in half a circle, forcing me away from the exit, putting himself between me and it.
As if I could run and leave the kid.
Maybe others might.
Maybe he would.
But there was no reality where I was leaving Joel to deal with the consequences of my actions.
“Oh, I think he is. Got you squirming,” he said, a sick grin tugging at his lips. “Now walk your pretty ass over to the couch and sit the fuck down.”
Joel’s big eyes were watching me, and his head shook slightly side to side. Like he didn’t want me to do what I was being told.
But what choice did I have?
“Don’t even think about it,” he said as I eyed my gun on the way toward the couch. “Matter of fact, toss away your knife.”
“I don’t—“
“I’ll take it from you,” he said. “After I carve the Adam’s apple out of this kid’s throat.”
“Relax,” I said, voice shaky as I sat on the couch, reaching down for my boot, and pulling the knife free, before sending it flying across the room.
“Hey, Cinna,” Joel called, voice shaky, something in his eyes willing me to understand.
“Shut the fuck up,” the man snarled.
“Don’t talk,” I demanded, seeing the knife against his throat, close enough to prick his skin.
“Just be ready,” Joel said, something in his face making my stomach drop.
Just a second before he did.
Joel’s whole body went limp.
And I watched, a cry caught in my throat, as the knife scratched down his neck, a long red streak.
But shallow.
Superficial.
The attacker wasn’t prepared for the movement, and wasn’t ready to grab him tighter, and keep him on his feet.
So Joel went to the floor, scrambling away on all fours as I flew up, charging across the room, grabbing the bastard’s wrist and pinning it to the wall, trying to wrench the knife free.
His hand shot out, grabbing a handful of my hair, yanking back hard enough for me to see stars as the pain shot across my scalp.
“That’s all you got?” I snapped, nails clawing at his hand, prying his fingers loose.
The knife clattered to the ground, forgotten.
Because the next thing I knew, his fist was striking out and landing, making me stumble back.
I had to get a fucking weapon.
He was bigger. Stronger. And being faster wasn’t always enough to win against someone like him.
“Joel,” I called, ducking under the guy’s arm, feeling him catch my wrist. “In the cushion,” I called, yanking my hand free and stumbling back a few steps, just out of reach.
Joel’s hand plunged between the cushions, looking, face blank, until his fingers closed around it. The little round bottle.
My pepper spray.
Well, one of many.
I had bought extras and stashed them around, my paranoia these days knowing no bounds.
Except, of course, it wasn’t actually paranoia when someone was out to get you.
Joel held it up, cocked his arm back, and sent it sailing.
My hand grabbed it.
But so did my attacker’s.
Both of us pulling at it, trying to get control of it.
Somehow, in the struggle, one of us must have worked the safety cap off of it.
And the next thing I knew, one of us—or both of us—were pressing against the top, and the spray was shooting out.
There was no way to dodge it.
The spritz was just cold at first.
Until the burn set in.
“Fuck,” I hissed, stumbling back, eyes on fire, making it impossible to see, so I kept stumbling back, trying to get away from a man who had a major advantage now that my own fucking weapon was being used against me.
Disoriented, I was confused when my back slammed into something waist height.
My kitchen counter.
Kitchen.
I didn’t own a single pot or pan.
Not a spatula or soup ladle.
But I did have knives.
Frantically trying to blink at the sting in my eyes, I fumbled along my counter, trying to orient myself.
Until I came across the long, low drawer.
I grabbed at it, yanking it open, misjudging its placement, and hitting my hip in the process.
My hand plunged in, grabbing at silverware until, finally, I felt the thick handle of my biggest knife.
“Right in front of you!” Joel called as I pulled the knife out, holding it close to my body, so my attacker couldn’t wrench it from me until I was sure of where to strike.
I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to see anyway, but hoping it would help the pain.