Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Finally, one of them, a tall man with a thick, blonde beard puts his phone to his ear.
“She’s here.” His tone is clipped. “Alone. I’m sending four guys to look around and try and find him.”
My stomach twists in pain.
Run away, Nate. It’s not your war.
Though what hurts me the most is my stupid pride. I’ve gotten myself into this situation because I cared more about ruining Godfrey than giving Nate and I a fresh start. As the bearded guy guides me into the depths of Godfrey’s front yard, I have an epiphany. If we make it out alive, there’s so much I want to show and do with him. I want to recreate all those happy moments that kept me from breaking. With him.
Watch a heart-wrenching play at the theater with him.
Have pistachio ice cream under the sun.
The ocean breaking over our sandy toes.
First dates.
Wet kisses.
Reliving everything that gave me hope. With. Him.
Not running away, his voice echoes in my head as the double doors to Godfrey’s mansion swing open. But chasing freedom.
“Before she sets foot inside the house, check her for weapons.” Godfrey’s voice carries from the second floor as we reach the threshold, along with the faint sounds of Beethoven’s “Ninth Symphony.” Godfrey and Camden are big on classical music. I look around his foyer. It’s everything I expected it to be. Big and built to intimidate, with marble floors, antique furniture and the empty echo of a house that never truly made it to becoming a home.
We all hide behind walls we’re desperate to break.
The only personalized thing in here is a creepy portrait of him and his son, something the size of the wall, in the middle of the living room. Godfrey is standing above a sitting Camden, clasping his shoulder with pride. They’re both looking straight at the person who painted them. Both wearing navy blue suits.
Their gazes. The choral playing in the background. An uncomfortable shudder rips through me.
“You heard the man. Arms out to the sides.”
I do as the Aryan Brother tells me, though my mind is elsewhere. Less than a month ago, it was Nate who searched me. But even back then, three minutes into our relationship, I knew there was something different about him.
There’s nothing different about the Aryan Brother. He is a barbaric savage, just like all the men in my life. Except for one.
His rough hands stroke the curves of my tits to the sound of the dramatic music, lingering, pressing, moving down to my stomach and fumbling with my sex and ass. He is chuckling to himself as he spends long seconds sliding his hand up and down my behind. I remain stoic, knowing it’s not as fun for him when the woman isn’t distressed. When his hand moves from the length of my arm to my fisted palm, he pries it open.
“What’s this?”
“A stress ball.”
“Give it to me.”
“No. It’s made of foam. It’s not a weapon. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Godfrey?” He raises his voice, his eyes hard on mine.
“Let her keep her stupid toy.”
After a bit more touching and fumbling, he finally lets me go, thrusting me in the direction of the staircase.
“Godfrey.” It’s my turn to yell, gripping the golden rails of the fancy stairway with one hand and my stress ball with the other. I release the rails with a gasp when I realize what I’ve done.
Fingerprints, stupid.
“I’d expect you to cater to your guests and play some flipping Wagner. They’d probably be all over the anti-Semitic bastard. Hope you’re not pussy enough to have your wise guys upstairs. It’ll be just the two of us, right?”
The booming sound of violins and cellos is unnerving before he finally speaks.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll be completely alone. I want that just as much as you do.” A chortle.
Looking down at the first stair like it’s a challenge to put my foot forward and climb it, I close my eyes and inhale. I can do this.
I climb up, stair after stair after stair. As I do, the music gets louder, swallowing my thoughts. When I reach the wide, lengthy hallway of his second floor, I’m barely shaking anymore. The place is empty, occupied only by the intense symphony of notes and chords.
The minute I’m in his hallway, his voice sings.
“Second room to your left.”
Cameras everywhere, I note. If I get out of here alive, I need to flee the country ASAP. Making a stop in Vallejo is a death wish. It’s risky as it is, with the officer who stopped us and the police chase.
I push the door open and stand in front of him.
He’s still weak.
Still clutching a cane.
Still in his stupid, big, orthopedic shoes.
Closing the door behind me, I notice he is indeed alone. His bedroom is simple, humble, even, with a queen-sized bed, no TV and sad, bare walls.