Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 58449 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58449 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
My whole life, burned to nothing.
And that psycho in the other room acted like it was no big deal.
I stared at the ceiling. Small, spiderwebbed cracks ran through the paint. I wondered if he was lying, all that stuff about them killing me if I ran away. I decided he probably wasn’t and that scared me even more.
I sat up and my head pounded. The room was simply furnished with a bureau and a nightstand. A small Timex clock showed it was just after six in the morning, the letters glowing red. There were no personal photos anywhere in the apartment, which I thought was strange.
I had pictures at home. Or I used to anyway. Pictures of myself and my mother before she left, pictures of my father before he’d spiraled into anger and drinking, pictures of myself when I was younger and still happy.
This guy had nothing, like his life didn’t even exist. There were paintings, and drawings, and a gorgeous rug on the floor, and the furniture all looked expensive and wood and custom made, but there was no character to any of it.
Like I was in some magazine spread. Gorgeous and impersonal.
I got up and opened the door. I used the bathroom, glanced through the medicine cabinet for something to use as a weapon—a razor, some scissors, anything—then walked toward the kitchen.
He stood with his back to the doorway, looking out over the living room while he pushed down the plunger of a French press.
I considered grabbing a knife from the block nearby and plunging it into the thick muscle on his back. I tried to remember his name, but couldn’t.
I kept seeing him pull the trigger. I kept seeing my dad’s head snap back as his blood and brains drenched the couch behind him. I screamed, then threw myself at the other guy, the one named Dean, and he’d punched me hard in the face. Things were fuzzy after that, until I was on my knees in the back yard.
None of it made sense. I knew my dad was involved with some shady people, but those guys acted like they were part of some organized crime family. They mentioned the Healys—but I had nothing to do with them. They were distantly related on my mother’s side and she’d always told me stories about them getting into trouble, stealing things and selling drugs, but I had no clue what they were doing these days.
“You want some coffee?” he asked, and I nearly screamed. I covered my mouth, heart suddenly racing, pulsing in a quivering uneven thump. I breathed hard to steady myself as he finished pushing down the plunger. He poured a mug and slid it to me over the counter.
He was shirtless, and his muscular chest was covered in tattoos. I gaped at his defined chest and abs, at the cut V that led down into his loose, light sweats. Cursive words scrawled beneath his collarbones: God Judges.
His eyes were deep green and his hair jet black. His jaw was square, and his nose crooked, like it’d been broken too many times to set properly. His cheeks were covered in the hint of a beard, and he was handsome, god, he was handsome, and he scared me, those dead and gorgeous eyes, those tattoos.
I picked up the coffee and it burned my tongue.
He poured some for himself then brushed past me. He sat at the small, round kitchen table that was placed outside of the living room area. I stayed in the kitchen, and kept the counter between us. I felt safer with some distance.
The apartment was like a museum. I had trouble connecting the brutal, cold killer from the night before with the profusion of beautiful drawings, plants, rugs, statues, vases, and pillows. He watched me, his face carefully composed. I took another sip, burned my mouth again, and looked away.
“I need new clothes,” I said. “These smell like smoke.”
He grunted softly. “I have something that might fit.”
“Were you lying last night?” I asked suddenly, the words spilling out. I felt stupid and useless, and I couldn’t meet his gaze.
“About what?” he asked.
“Running away. Would they kill me?”
He let out a soft laugh. “You’ve been wondering all night, I bet.”
He was right. I kept thinking about it, over and over, weighing the situation in my mind. Part of me wanted to throw open the window and scream until someone called the cops, but I was terrified he’d get rid of me before they showed up. He said he didn’t want to kill me—he said that he wouldn’t kill me—but that didn’t mean I could push him too far.
There were things worse than dying.
“I don’t understand what you want from me,” I said.
He shook his head and held the coffee in both hands. “I don’t want anything from you,” he said. “If it were up to me, you’d get on a bus to California right now and never look back. But it’s not up to me.”