Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 102335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
I leave the space open for a few seconds before scoffing. “Sorry, but being a cop really isn’t in my vision—if you know what I mean.”
“Oh—” He pauses, and when his hand comes to my arm, his shirt lifting up from his wrist, I see a cross on the top. My eyes travel back up his arms to his face. “I’m no cop.”
When I was eleven years old, I remember finding a kitten on the side of the road. She was hurt, bruised, and had patches of hair missing on her body, but I remember picking her up and carrying her to my house. I burst through the doors, crying because the poor kitty was obviously left discarded by her previous owners.
Mama was in the kitchen baking cookies and she stopped what she was doing, tossing her apron onto the counter, her hands coming to her hips. “Ruby! What is this?” My mom was the supportive kind. The kind of mother that all of my friends loved because she felt like theirs too.
“I found her on the sidewalk! She’s hurt. Can we keep her?” That was my first question.
Can we keep her?
My mom should have said no.
My father should have said no.
They both said yes.
We took her to the vet, fixed her up, and brought her home.
But that was a kitten, not two entire humans covered with blood—and not their own, might I add.
I sit in my room, staring at my bedroom door and wondering what I should do. Should I go and see them? The girl at least. I mean, she looked approachable. He didn’t.
Sitting up, I pull the covers from my body and slip my feet into my fluffy Louis Vuitton slippers. Tiptoeing around the creak in the floorboard at the end of my bed, I squeeze the handle and slowly open the door. Theirs is slightly ajar, with a beam of light flickering from beneath. I take a slow step forward when I feel him. The air around me tightens and I hold my breath to stop myself from breathing too loud in his space.
“What are you doing?” His voice is like lava spilling over mountaintops, turning everything to ash on its way down. “Ruby, right?”
I spin around slowly, in hopes that I can think of something to say, when our eyes meet, only there’s nothing that can help. He stands tall right beside me, his body lean and shoulders wide. His dark hair is shaved close on the sides, slightly thicker on the top, and his cheekbones are like perfectly shaved ice cubes, cut to perfection before leading to an equally shaved jawline. His eyes are weak, as if he had just smoked a few too many blunts. His soft lips curve up in a smirk.
Shit.
No.
“Ah, I was going to see if she wanted to come choose some clothes.” Dumbest excuse ever, and why am I so afraid to talk to this guy? He’s in my house. What’s the worst he could do? “Sorry…”
“Don’t apologize.” His teeth flash, and I see a smidge of how white and straight they are. I bet when he smiles, it’s beautiful, though I get the feeling he doesn’t do it often. He moves forward, grabbing the handle of the door and clicking it closed. “Your dad bring strays in often?”
I shake my head slowly, tucking my blonde hair behind my ear. “No. Never.”
He studies me closely, but I look away. The longer I maintain eye contact with him, the hotter my skin burns.
I step back until I collide with the wall.
“School?”
“Private.”
The corner of his lip twitches. “Private as in you don’t wanna tell me, or private as in the organization?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. Why would I not want to tell him, he’s basically staying in my house. “No, private school. Are you starting?”
He snickers, side-stepping me to open the bedroom door. “Nah, I’m going to work with your dad.” My insides turn cold, and before I can say another word, his door is closed and I’m staring back at the intricate carvings sculpted into the wood. It isn’t that I hate my dad’s work. It’s not technically work. It’s just that it has always taken memories we could have had and replaced them with money. Power. Respect. To some, that may be nice. To Mama and me, it’s a nightmare.
Making my way downstairs, I find Mama sitting in the living room with a book open on her lap. The open fire is cracking and lights dimmed just enough so she can read.
“Hey, baby, everything okay?” Mama’s first language wasn’t English, although she learned it during her school years in Cairo.
I smile at her, lowering myself down onto the chaise directly opposite. “Mama, we can still leave?”
Her eyes narrow on me and she closes her book silently while looking over her shoulder. She leans in closer, her bright blue eyes a contrast to her dark hair. “Habibti, I love him. I told you not to worry about it.” My father met my mother while he was in Cairo for a business trip when she was fresh out of college. They fell in love, but as hard as he loved her, was as hard as he controlled her. He never hurt her, or me—ever. But last month I caught her packing her bags with tears strolling down her face.