Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“Oh, thanks,” Brecken said politely.
The young girl left, and I looked back at Brecken with a raised brow.
I didn’t have to say a word, and she launched right back into her story.
“He tore her a new one right there in the middle of the corridor,” Brecken explained. “The asshole grabbed her arm right above her elbow, and he was squeezing so hard. The next day, Viveka came to school in long sleeves. She did that for the next two weeks, and I knew that she was hiding the bruises.” She sighed. “A month or so later, we were in the break room, and she brought up a hypothetical scenario to me and my ex-best friend. She asked what we would do in a situation if we found ourselves pregnant with an abusive partner. Both of us gave our opinions, and Viveka got really worried looking as we described our sides. That next week was when she disappeared. I didn’t hear anything more about her until she showed up on the news having been hit by a car down the road from your house.”
I was curious, though.
“What would you have done in that kind of situation?” I asked.
She bit her lip. “I told her I would find the scariest man I could find who could protect my child and leave my child with him.”
Little did she know, that was exactly what Viveka had done.
“You’d leave your child with some virtual stranger?” I questioned.
“I wouldn’t just leave them, no. But I feel like I’m a pretty good judge of character. I think that I would’ve found someone that I trusted to take care of them. That I knew would protect them with their lives. That I knew was scary enough to do what they had to do to make sure that child stayed safe always,” she explained.
I couldn’t tell her what had happened.
I couldn’t trust her with those kinds of secrets.
Not when they’d incriminate me in any way.
So far, I’d managed to keep my nose clean in this city. I didn’t want to bring the cops’ attention to me if I didn’t have to.
“Here you go.” The waitress set our drinks down. “What would you like to eat?”
I picked up my menu, found the fresh fish section, and ordered the catch of the day.
Brecken ordered next and surprised the hell out of me.
“I’ll have the all-you-can-eat catfish,” she said. “Instead of fries, though, I want a loaded baked potato. And I also want to order the blackberry cobbler for dessert.”
The waitress took our menus and left, leaving me staring at the woman across from me in surprise.
“I’m surprised to hear that you are eating fried catfish,” I admitted.
“Why?” She took a sip of her drink, wrapping her lips around the straw in such a way that it made my cock go hard in reaction.
“Because most women eat like birds around me,” I answered. “I’ve yet to be out to eat with a woman besides my sisters that didn’t order a salad, and pretend like food was unnecessary to them.”
“Well, hate to break it to you, but food is very necessary to me.” She patted her flat belly. “If I don’t eat, I get this condition.”
My body tensed. “What kind of condition?”
I hadn’t heard about any conditions other than her lactose intolerance from Lev, who’d run a very thorough background check on her.
And why the fuck did I have such fear in my heart right now at the thought of her being sick in any way?
I shouldn’t have any kinds of feelings about the woman.
Yet, there I was, feeling them.
“It’s this really rare condition called bitchiness,” she answered. “If I don’t eat, I turn into a complete, raving bitch. Everyone is on my shit list if I don’t eat. And if I do eat, and it happens to be salad, I only have about an hour reprieve from said bitchiness.”
Relief hit me like a battering ran at her words.
“At least that’s something that I’m used to,” I commiserated. “My sisters and grandma suffer from the same condition.”
She beamed at me, and I wouldn’t ever admit it, but that smile did something to my cold, dead heart.
“You have a grandmother?” she asked.
I nodded. “Don’t most people?”
“Yes.” She paused. “I used to have two of them, but both of them passed away about five years ago. In fact, I don’t have any grandparents left. All of them lived really hard lives. Like my parents, they were all rodeo fanatics. Both grandfathers rode bulls. My dad’s mom was a barrel racer. She did that into her late seventies and died of a heart attack while in a competition. My mom’s mom was a farmer, and she got run over by a tractor while they were plowing fields. My grandfather ran her over.”
My stomach sank. “I can’t think of anything worse to happen than to be the one responsible for running over the one person in the world that I love more than life itself.”