Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
I growled under my breath, anxiety and anger circulating hot in my blood. I needed to fly. I needed this journey to fucking end.
I need her.
I shivered as hurtling wind sliced through the horrific Hawaiian print shirt encasing my broad torso. The sleeves were too short, the chest too tight, and I couldn’t look at the god-awful track pants clinging to my legs.
I missed my leathers.
Shit, I missed my own damn bike.
Grasshopper’s custom Triumph was all wrong. The acceleration sluggish compared to my beast. The Pure Corruption logo of skulls and all-important abacas was drawn freehand with glowing flames on the frame.
The flames seared my heart.
Cleo.
My mind whooshed with burning houses, smoking remains, and charred dreams of ever growing old with the girl I loved.
She’d witnessed her parents’ double homicide.
She’d almost burned to death.
All because I wasn’t strong enough to save her.
And I’m not strong enough to save her now.
The agony of the never-ceasing headache hollered in agreement.
I’m a liability. I don’t deserve her.
Every mile we charged, my injuries and shortcomings became more apparent.
My head hurt like a motherfucker.
My vision was frighteningly narrowed.
My mind slothfully slow.
The joy of thinking in algorithms, the speed of dealing with figures and equations was … damaged.
I was fuzzy.
I was lost.
I hated to admit it, but the doctor was right.
There’s something wrong with me.
Everything raged inside. I couldn’t find that calm—that control. I was on the cusp of wreaking my revenge—on the precipice of having everything I’d been working toward coming true.
I couldn’t afford to be broken now.
I can’t bear to be ruined when she needs me.
The roar of another Triumph coasted beside me.
I looked to the side.
Mo matched my speed, still managing to look badass even with Grasshopper riding bitch on the back.
I felt empty, vulnerable at not having my usual weapons. But I’d refused to waste more time by returning home. Instead, I’d commandeered Grasshopper’s knife and his unregistered pistol and straddled his machine without asking.
What was his was mine. He’d get over it.
He worked for me. Not the other way around.
I’d been dead for too long believing Cleo was lost. I wouldn’t live in such hell again.
Yes, I had a shit-stirring headache. Yes, something was seriously fucking wrong with me.
But none of that mattered.
Cleo.
I have to get to Cleo.
Then, I could worry about myself.
Then, I could die happy knowing I’d finally avenged and saved her.
Fifty-four hours they’ve had her.
My mathematically tuned brain clunked and wheezed, no longer the streamlined super machine but a rusty fucking cog.
Fifty-four hours they’ll have to pay back in blood.
Hunkering over the bike, I fed another twist of petrol to the roaring engine. I didn’t need to look at the speedometer to know this speed would kill me three times over if I buckled beneath the pain in my head.
My patience snapped.
My hatred overflowed.
Nothing else fucking mattered.
Only her.
I’m coming, Cleo.
Don’t you dare leave me … not again.
Chapter Five
Cleo
He was still being a dick.
Last week, he’d wanted to hang out with me. Now he wanted nothing to do with me. I’d tried everything. I’d baked him his favorite white-chocolate-chip cookies. I’d worn my hair in pigtails like he loved. I’d even stuffed my bra so he could see that a woman existed inside this stubborn flat-chested thirteen-year-old body. But no matter how he treated me, he couldn’t hide the truth. He did care for me. I knew he would always come for me. Always protect me. I knew because he was mine. He was my guardian angel. —Cleo, diary entry, age thirteen
There hadn’t been a single moment in the past eight years when I’d awoken and wished I could forget.
Every morning had been a struggle to remember.
Every night a battle between needing to know and needing to forget.
I’d tried to trick my mind into remembering, but either I was too stubborn or too afraid, because it never worked. And … as the days turned from hell to heaven and Arthur fell back in love with me, I didn’t really mind that a chunk of my life was missing.
I had him back. Larger than life and even more perfect than any recollection could do justice.
I was content with that.
But living in the silver haze of amnesia, with no past or present, came with its own burdens and trials. It meant I couldn’t find my true self, but it also granted unusual freedom. Freedom because I couldn’t find my true self. I had the latitude to be stronger, braver—all because I had no notion of who I’d been or what I was risking by choosing certain paths.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like that indulgent laxity … that power.
It’d granted me silent strength to chase Arthur even when he seemed unchasable. And it’d helped me find the truth that I’d been missing all these years.
But now, pinned to a table with men gawking at my half-naked form, I wished I could disappear into the void where my mind had vacationed for so long.