Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 140184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 701(@200wpm)___ 561(@250wpm)___ 467(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 701(@200wpm)___ 561(@250wpm)___ 467(@300wpm)
My butt is showing now, the sexy panties Milo bought me. Larry’s grody fingers move across my skin toward the edge of my panties like he’s going to push beneath them, and I punch him right in the fucking nuts.
He screams like I shot him in the face and dramatically falls back, clutching his pathetic sac and banging into the wall.
I shove myself up off the floor and grab my purse that I dropped, heading for the hallway.
Mom catches me by the hair, pulling me back and slamming my head against the wall.
“Why are you such a fucking whore, huh?”
“Get off me,” I say, swatting her hand away.
She shoves me back against the wall as I stumble down the hall. I turn to face her and my heart stops a second before she punches me in the face.
I’m so stunned, I stop fighting back for a couple of seconds. She slaps me, shoves me, and brings her knee up to jam into my ribs.
I finally recover from the shock and give her a hard shove away from me. She’s drunk and not expecting it, so she stumbles back a few steps.
It’s enough for me to race down the hall and hurl myself into the bathroom, but when I turn around to slam the door, my heart nearly stops because she’s so close, I’m not sure I’ll be able to get it secured.
Her hands come up to shove at the door the moment I get it slammed shut. My hands shake as I quickly turn the knob mere milliseconds before she starts violently turning and yanking on it.
“Open up the door, you little slut!”
I draw a series of shuddering breaths that sound like the start of hyperventilation.
Larry must have recovered from the low blow because he’s at the door with her now, banging on it with his fist and screaming at me to open the fucking door if I know what’s good for me.
Terrified and crying almost too hard to breathe, I fumble with my purse and dig out my cell phone.
I want to call Milo, but I realize I don’t have his phone number.
Jet’s is the only number I have, so I hurry up and find the option to make an audio call to him while stealing panicked looks at the flimsy-ass door, buckling and giving with every pound from the other side.
Thankfully, Jet answers right away. “Hello?”
“Jet, I need you to call your dad. Please, it’s an emergency and I don’t have his number. Please call him right now, please, I’m so scared.”
“Kennedy?” His voice changes abruptly. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m at my apartment locked in the bathroom. My mom and her boyfriend were attacking me. They’re trying to get in and I don’t even have anything I can use to defend myself. Your dad just left, he shouldn’t be too far. Please hurry, call him and tell him to come back.”
“Open the goddamn door,” Larry booms, slamming into it and making me shake.
“Jet, did you hear me?” I ask because I’m so upset, I’m not sure he can understand me.
“Yeah. Shit, I don’t want to hang up, but— Jonathan, do you have your—”
“Open this fucking door, you little bitch. If I have to break it down, I’m gonna hurt you real bad,” Larry threatens.
The door bows.
“Jet, hurry.”
“I’ll call him right now, Kennedy.”
The line disconnects.
The door makes a sickening noise as they both bang into it.
I don’t know what else to do, so I hide behind it so at least if they get the door open, I’ll have a few seconds before they get their hands on me.
Chapter eighteen
Jonathan
Growing up, I was not taught in black and white generalities like, “always treat others how you want to be treated,” or “violence is never the answer.”
Maybe someone is an asshole and doesn't deserve any kindness from you. Maybe violence is all that’ll get your point across.
My parents always understood that people and situations were complex, and what might be the good or right thing to do in one scenario might be the wrong thing in another. Because of that, rather than recite idiotic Target pillow philosophy, they taught me how to actually fucking think.
I was taught to be practical, to be prepared, and not to be a fucking idiot.
I am 0 for 3 when I shove open the door of the apartment Jet told me Kennedy lived in. I’ve never been here before, so I’m not even positive it’s the right place until I see her mother slouched over on the couch with a joint between her fingers and an open beer bottle in her hand.
I was aware of the possibility that I was walking into danger when Kennedy was crying on the phone to Jet. I was also aware of the possibility I was escalating it when I grabbed Dad’s gun out of the safe before I jumped in the car and hurried over here.