Total pages in book: 216
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
Mr. Owens intimated so in the car, but this seems to confirm it. He knows about the trouble my father is in… Or he’s behind it. I can’t help looking up, needing to see his face so I can try to gauge whether or not he’s telling the truth. His voice is so… not monotone exactly. That’s the wrong word. Just matter of fact. Like of course that’s where Dad’s headed.
I only manage to look at him for a half a second before I have to glance down again. That face… just ugh.
I couldn’t tell if anything about him looked trustworthy or not. It’s wrong and shallow of me. If we were out in polite society, I’d try to be more politically correct about someone with a disability or disfigurement, but considering the circumstances, I’m running a little short on empathy at the moment.
“How do I know you aren’t behind all this?” My whole body trembles as I ask it. “That you aren’t one of the very people my dad warned me about who wants him dead?”
“You don’t,” comes his grumble. “Not until tomorrow when he gets to his location. Then I can show you proof of life pictures of him with the local paper. You’ll get regular updates every week throughout the year.” There’s a short pause. “Or however long it takes.”
I swallow hard. Oh my God. If what he’s saying is true, then it is all real.
A baby in exchange for my dad’s life…
And all the things it takes to make a baby.
Holy shit. Is this actually my life?
“You can put this on while I examine you.”
I turn around to see the doctor holding out one of those terrible, thin hospital dressing gowns. I go forward and clutch it like a lifeline.
“The bathroom’s just over there.” She points to one side of the room where there’s another small door.
Yes, apparently this is my life, whether I want it to be or not. The giant at the door and those thugs with the black bags seem like no take-backs kind of guys.
In the bathroom, my entire body shakes as I slip off my Gucci pantsuit and underclothes, then pull on the hospital gown. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror while I try to awkwardly tie the little tie behind my back and neck.
The wooden floor is cool underneath my feet. The bathroom is clean and what probably passes for high class around here—a marble topped counter with brass fixtures. An abstract watercolor painting of a cowboy riding a bucking bull hangs right behind the toilet.
So now I know.
Hell is cowboy chic.
Awesome.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight and then clutch the material at the small of my back. No way to stop your ass from hanging out of these stupid robes.
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. Ten hours ago I was waking up and heading into what I thought was just another ordinary day of work.
And now I’m…
God, I can’t even think about my current situation too closely. Not if I want to make it through this and not freak the hell out.
I open my eyes and don’t let myself consider it any longer. I walk back out to the other room, hand still firmly holding my gown closed behind me.
The giant is still standing right outside the doorway—that’s the first thing I notice when I get back in the room. He’s hovering just outside the sphere of light. I hope he’s far enough away he doesn’t notice the shiver that goes up and down my body. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Maybe the exam will take the rest of the afternoon. Or rather, evening. I glance out the window at the setting sun.
Just how late is it? If it’s nighttime, does that mean he’ll expect… like, right away?
“When was the date of your last period?” the doctor asks, either totally ignorant of my obvious freak-out or doing a great job of pretending not to notice.
She continues with the preliminaries like this is any other check-up. Are my periods regular? Have I noticed any other irregularities or do I have any concerns I’d like to discuss with her?
The talking part is over far too quickly and then she’s onto the exam. Just my luck, she’s fast and efficient.
Her pronouncement echoes throughout the room while the speculum is still inside me.
“She’s a virgin.”
Even from the bed where I’m lying, my legs spread like the Thanksgiving turkey, I can hear his quick, heavy exhalation.
Relief? Surprise?
Mr. Owens said earlier that I was the perfect candidate. Was being a virgin part of the client’s requirements? And if it was, how the hell did they know?
It’s not like I wear a sign on my forehead, no penises have tread here. I’m a successful twenty-six-year-old woman. I work out, keep trim, and I get hit on plenty. At my age, it’s weird to still be a virgin without, you know, religious reasons for it.