Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“Is that just whiskey?” she asks.
I smile. “Not used to it?” I take off the gloves.
She shakes her head, slow motion. “It’s not that.” She looks up at me, again cocking her head. “Is it?”
“Is it what?”
“Just…” Before she finishes, she slides sideways off the seat. I’m on my feet in an instant to scoop her up, careful to catch her injured hand and set it on her stomach.
“No, you little convict. It’s not just whiskey. Don’t you know the first rule when dealing with men like me? When threatening men like me?”
“What did you do?” She struggles, trying to get out of my arms as I carry her out of the kitchen, back down the hall and up the stairs to the bedroom I prepared for her.
“Don’t drink anything your enemy offers you unless you’ve seen him drink it first.”
“What did you… give me?” she croaks.
I draw the blanket back and lay her down. She struggles to keep her eyes from closing but she won’t win. I sit on the edge of the bed, brush her hair back from her face as she tries to fight off sleep.
“What…”
“Just a little something to help you sleep while I find out exactly who the fuck you are.”
7
Ezekiel
She’ll be out for the next twelve hours. Maybe more, given her size. The sleeping pills were mixed into the little bit of whiskey in the glass she drank from.
I look at her face as she sleeps. I say her name in my head, Bluebird Smith. I could pick up the sister. That would be the surest way to get to the truth. I don’t know exactly what is wrong with her. All I know is that Oakwood Care Center specializes in brain injuries. But I’m curious about the little convict here.
I slip her well-worn sneakers off her feet. They’re bare, her toenails a blue that matches her hair. I guess it’s her favorite color. I drag the sweatpants off next. They’re bloody from her cut, as are my slacks. She’s not wearing underwear, as I already ascertained, and my gaze catches on the shaved slit of her pussy before I sit her up, leaning her against myself as I draw the bodysuit off over her head then lay her back down. I toss the scrap of a uniform onto the floor along with the rest of her things.
I take in her naked body. She’s slender with full, round breasts, her nipples a deep pink. They tighten beneath my gaze as if I were touching her. I let my gaze trace a path over her flat stomach, to the slit of her sex. I’m hard at the sight of her like this. Not sure what that says about me, so I draw in a breath and return my gaze to her face, turning it to examine the scar. I push strands of blue and black hair off her cheek.
The scar is a four-inch-long jagged line. Not a knife, more like breaking glass with your face. It’s not fresh but when I smear away more of the heavily applied foundation with my thumb, I see it’s still pink. I imagine her looking in a mirror, hands shaking as she mustered up the courage to stitch herself up. I have to give it to her. It takes balls. Which confirms to me that she’s desperate. I have no doubt she’s running and the money she tried to extort from me her last resort.
There’s some part of me that softens knowing that she’s running from whoever did this to her. Hurt her.
I trace the scar, feel the hard tissue that’s formed beneath, trace the five stitch marks, which are widely spaced and crooked. It will be visible for the rest of her life.
I have wondered for years now if it is somehow easier to bear the scars on the outside rather than the inside. Inside it’s just you all alone with your damage. Outside, as people leer and whisper, does it somehow numb the pain? Numb you?
Does it harden you as you wrap yourself in scar tissue to protect yourself from all those curious eyes? All those wagging tongues?
Getting to my feet I push a hand through my hair and force the thought away.
Zoë was built small too. Like Blue. But she’d also stopped eating for the most part. She bore her scars on her own, on the inside. Well, she tried to tell me, but I neither heard nor saw. Not until it was too late.
My throat tightens, and I turn Blue’s face away, so I don’t have to see it. I tug the blanket over her. I can’t feel sorry for her. She’s blackmailing me. She has evidence that could be dangerous for me, if she’s not lying, that is. If she truly has that duffel. But the fact that she knows about the bag at all is troubling. And then there’s the hotel manager. I’ll go over to see Jericho tonight, once I finish what I need to do here.