Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 140462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
I twist the chair without mercy. Bone cracks as the cop’s arm gives in under the pressure of steel, but he only falls when I slam my forehead against his face. I’ve smelled enough blood to know everyone’s is the same. Whether it’s a cop, an accountant caught doing financial crimes, or a ruthless killer. Inside we are all just meat and will break with enough pressure.
At least the old lady cowered under the counter and doesn’t intervene.
The female cop is dazed, she’s holding her head with one hand, but points her gun at Sylvan with the other.
He raises his hands, pale as snow, and shifts toward the counter. “Please, no, I was abducted! I’ve got nothing to do with him!”
It hurts worse than being stabbed with the dirty shank that should have ended my life weeks ago. As soon as she looks at me, assessing who the threat is, Sylvan grabs the container of cinnamon and throws the brown powder in her face. She starts coughing, the cloud of spice hovering around her like angry bees.
That’s my boy.
For a moment there, I was sure he’d turn on me after our argument, but he runs right to my side.
“Lucy! Stay down!” the male cop yells. At least he’s not being a hero. Good for him.
I kick his gun away and pull on Sylvan’s hand. It feels so good in mine, as though I was always meant to hold it.
“W-we… n-need… assistance…” the woman chokes into her radio, but I don’t listen.
I would slash through as many bodies as it would take if it meant freedom for myself and Sylvan, but at this point, the police know there’s a problem, and nothing I’d do here can change that.
“Get in,” I bark, sliding into the driver’s seat, and I back out of the parking space the moment Sylvan’s door closes. A car comes to an abrupt stop and hits its horn when I dash onto the street, cutting him off, but keeping our heads down is no longer a concern. Not with our survival on the line.
There isn’t that much traffic at this time, and the darkness aids me, making other vehicles easy to spot by their headlights as I speed past stoplights and change lanes on my way to—
“The pretzel woman. She’ll tell them where we’re headed. Fuck,” I grit through my teeth, slamming the wheel as my stomach sinks.
What the fuck should I do?
“Go there. Trust me. Go to The Rusty Stallion,” Sylvan says with so much conviction I struggle to question it.
I don’t have the time to reconsider. We’re speeding down a straight road, and I’ll either trust that my deranged twink elf boyfriend knows some secret hiding spot at this bar, or straight up ignore him and drive on in hopes of losing the cops.
I have a few heartbeats to make that decision, because we’re approaching the place and fast.
I only spot the old rusty road sign due to the bright mustard ad right next to it. A part of me wants to trust my own instinct and run like a mouse fleeing a bunch of cats through an unfamiliar labyrinth, but when Sylvan places his hand on my thigh, the decision is made for me.
The wheels squeak, and the air fills with the odor of burnt rubber, but I slow down enough to make the turn without rolling and drive through the deserted parking lot. A broken tent, that’s likely no longer occupied, leans against an old van, but the surroundings of the bar could be the set for the next post-apocalyptic movie.
I know it’s futile at this point, but I refuse to park out in the open and drive behind the building to the faint roar of police sirens in the distance.
Our only hope is that Sylvan’s friend is actually a squatter in this abandoned bar and that’s why my sweet, if deluded, boy believes we will be saved here.
As soon as we burst out of the car, Sylvan grabs his bag from the back seat. It’s ridiculous, but I’d rather waste a few seconds on taking the massive one too instead of using the time to argue with him. It’s so heavy it might be useful as a shield or weapon, if push comes to shove.
We stop in front of a tall wooden door covered in metal studs, which makes it look strangely medieval and out of place in this back alley. The carving at the top is in some language I don’t know, but if Sylvan’s friend is into this whole pretend-to-be-elves game, he might just help us.
I pull on the handle, but the door won’t budge, so I knock on it with my fist, desperate to find out how doomed we are.
Sylvan runs his fingers over the wood and nail studs. “Wait. I’ve got it… I think… I’ll open it.”