Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
“Did you write this about me?” he asks, eyes flashing with a shimmer of intrigue. He taps his finger on the open page of the journal.
I blush prettily.
“Why, yes I did. I hope that’s alright.” I look around nervously as I speak, half playing the part and half worried that someone might overhear. “I just figure it’s best to get my temptations out through words rather than through actions. It’s safer that way, isn’t it?”
“Temptations?” he asks, leaning forward with bright eyes.
“Yes, well you read it didn’t you? Temptations. Or rather, I suppose, desires,” I reply with a sly smile. My heart’s hammering because I know this could go one of two ways. This time, the young man leers, and I see broken yellow teeth.
“So every day you undress me with your eyes, and imagine me putting my lips down between your thighs?” he whispers, a lustful glow growing in his eyes. Oh yes, this is what I planned. It makes me physically ill, but I must play along.
I take a step closer and whisper to him the last words of the poem I wrote about him. Locking my eyes on his, I recite:
“And with my fervent cries, my legs bound open by ties, he thrusts himself inside, and adamantly rides.”
The poetry is by no means first class, but it does the trick. Isar’s eyes flame and he seizes my wrist.
“I have somewhere we can go to be alone,” he mutters, pulling me along roughly.
“Wait, wait. I mean it, I have learned from my mistakes,” I exclaim, stopping him in his tracks. “I need to do this right. I need to officially call things off with my boyfriend first. I’ll tell him I am never coming back for him, and then you can have me, rightly so.”
Isar looks confused.
“What? I cannot let you call your boyfriend. It’s too risky because you will tell him where you are.”
“I will not! You can supervise the call, and honestly, I’m not even sure where I am. I just want to end things with this man so I can morally give my body over to you. It is the will of the spirits.”
Isar looks around, quite confounded about what to do. Finally, he relents.
“Okay, okay. I will bring you a satellite phone tonight. You have two minutes. If you tell him anything, I will report that you stole the phone from me to plot an escape, and they will likely kill you for that.”
I feel my stomach rise to my throat.
“And then? When will you have me?”
He licks his lip, his tongue pink and fleshy.
“Tomorrow. You will be mine, Misty.”
I cannot believe this idiot guard has agreed to bring me a phone, but who knows? I only hope that he’s truly onboard because if he sees through my flimsy charade, then I’m dead by morning.
12
Jordan
The sun is just rising when the plane touches down in St. Petersburg. The golden orange rays are quite beautiful, but I ignore them. I push and shove my way through the airport before racing outside to hail a cab. I thrust an address in the cabbie’s face and we pull away from the curb with a screech.
We arrive at a decrepit apartment building. It’s very old-school Communist style with its drab concrete walls, square, squat shape, and dry grass in front. When I knock, a harried woman with her head covered by a kerchief answers. She’s got a heavily lined face, and children clinging to her long skirt. I explain that I’m a friend of Mr. Snow’s brother in America and that I need to talk to him immediately. Thankfully, she understands, and motions for me to take a seat at the kitchen table.
The house around me reveals the family’s humble roots. The walls are covered with peeling wallpaper that looks like it was put up in the 70’s. Mud plated boots worn through the soles sit by the front door, and another woman with dark puffy eyes rushes to pour steaming tea into a cup before me.
Fortunately, the room is filled with laughter as children run joyously through the small home. The two boys wear no shirts, and the girl wears only a tattered dress, but they look happy and healthy.
Their father enters the room, an air of seriousness tailing him. The woman shushes the children and pushes them towards the door, encouraging them to play outside now that their father has a guest.
“What can I do you for?” the man says gruffly.
I drop all pretenses.
“I’m Jordan Slate, with the United States Army. I’m here about your niece, Misty Snow” I begin. “Her parents say they sent her here for medical reasons,” I lie smoothly.
He nods.
“Yes, yes,” is his mumble. I look at him expectantly.
“Is she here?” I ask. He sighs, looking very tired suddenly.
“Mr. Slate, Misty never arrived. We never heard word and we just assumed that she wasn’t coming anymore. That you took care of the problem in America.” My hackles rise at his implication.