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)
Arthur was right. Talking would have to wait. And then by God, I would make him listen, even if I had to hit him over the head with another baseball bat.
A tap on the window wrenched my head up. Grasshopper grinned, waved, then took off in a roar of thunder on his bike.
A torrent of leather-jacketed men followed him, their motorcycles kicking up dirt like angry stallions galloping through the darkness. Roar after roar of super-charged engines devoured the silence, turning night into nightmares.
A thrill went through me at the sound. The purr of motorbikes no longer scared me. It was my heritage. My home.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, Arthur slammed the door and slipped the key Grasshopper had given him into the ignition. The engine was so quiet, it didn’t sound like the car was on after the raucous of bikes.
Tension and awkwardness prevailed from our unresolved fight.
Rather than address it and bring our tempers back to boiling point, I said quietly, “I feel like you’re my taxi driver.”
The rigidity of his back softened a little as he looked at me in the rearview mirror. His eyebrow quirked. “Why?”
“Whenever we’re in a car together, you’re always in front and I’m in the back.” My mind slipped back to the day he’d thrown me into the 4WD and shot across town to the harbor to sell me. We’d had a massive argument then, too. Seemed the only way to slap any sense into this man was to fight through his pigheadedness.
Art didn’t say a word. Locking his fists around the steering wheel, he looked as if he prayed for patience … or pain relief.
My heart twisted at the void between us. “I love you, Arthur,” I breathed. “No matter what, I hope you always remember that.”
His head shot up, a low groan escaping his throat. He made eye contact in the mirror again, his face contorting with so many things. His gaze glowed in the car’s gloomy interior before he leaned forward and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. “You kill me every time you say that, Buttercup.”
The agony in his voice wrapped around me like sad, tearful mist.
“Oh, Art.” I couldn’t stand him hurting like this. Despite my bruised body and my killer headache, I shoved aside the blanket and wrapped my arms around the back of his seat, stroking his shoulders.
He reclined, folding himself into my embrace. His back rested against the beige leather, and he sighed heavily as my arms locked around his chest, holding him tight. “I’m going to say this once and only once, so pay attention.” I kissed the shell of his ear. “That night won’t change how I feel about you. I give you my ultimate promise. But I understand your need to wait to talk about it.”
He went deathly still. “You … you remembered?”
I hugged him harder. “I told you. All of it.”
He twisted out of my embrace, turning to face me with wide, incredulous eyes. “You’re telling me you remember me shooting your mother and father point blank, yet you still love me?” He shook his head. “Are you insane as well as amnesic?”
God, give me patience with this man.
I wanted to scream at him but we were both too tender and sore for another battle. Instead, I took the calm road and kept my voice even and soothing. “You didn’t kill them.”
“I pulled the trigger.”
“You weren’t yourself.”
Leaning forward so his nose almost touched mine, he seethed, “They’re dead because of me.”
I balled my hands. “They’re dead because of Rubix!”
My outburst stopped him long enough for me to spill the horrific memories of that night. Screw waiting. Screw his ideals. “Yes, you pulled the trigger. Yes, you were the one my parents saw the moment they died, but they knew as well as I did that it wasn’t you!”
“What do you mean it wasn’t me?” Arthur roared. His temper blazed as vibrant as the fire behind us. His features were harsh and brutal from his awful concussion.
My mouth parted. “You honestly don’t know, do you?”
He snorted. “I know just fine. I remember the weight of the gun in my hand. I remember the stink of gasoline. I remember the soundless bullet as it tore through your parents’ hearts. Don’t tell me I don’t know, Cleo, because I know too fucking well!”
His chest pumped, sweat shone on his upper lip and brow, and the sounds of sirens were no longer on the horizon but just around the corner.
“We need to leave,” I said softly. “There are two sides to every tale and you’re remembering the wrong one.”
For the longest moment, I worried he would ignore me and continue fighting. I doubted he had the strength to argue much longer or wish to be here when the fire brigade came screeching around the corner. But at the last second, he clenched his jaw and turned away from me.