Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“I’m still mad at you,” she says. “I only called back because I need to know about Christmas.”
My throat clogs, something that I’ve done pretty good at controlling on each of our calls. But knowing I’m going to miss seeing her for the holiday hits me differently than all the other things I’ve missed since I’ve been here. Inside, I swim with guilt as if this is something I can control.
“I’m not going to make it,” I whisper, hating that Raul is standing so close and witnessing my pain. It makes it harder to hide.
I clear my throat even as she sniffles.
“I knew going to college would be hard, but I always figured I had a home to go back to.”
I want to remind her that we had to sell our childhood home so I could afford to send her to college. The one-bedroom apartment in Plano wasn’t home, despite my efforts to make it as warm and welcoming as possible. It still left me sleeping on the couch, because as a teen girl, she needed more privacy than I did as a nurse with wild and crazy hours. I never even got the chance to sleep in the bedroom rather than on the couch because I was taken from her college dorm parking lot.
I meet Raul’s eyes, wishing things were different, but I know he just wouldn’t release me if he could hear the pain in my sister’s voice. The suffering of others doesn’t register to this man. If they did, he wouldn’t be as rich and as successful as he is.
“How was your English test?” I ask, changing the subject.
I’ve lied to her so much that I’m not going to keep doing it when I can help it. I can’t promise her that she’ll have a home to come to when summer arrives. The only way I’ll ever see my sister again is if Raul or one of his lackeys grabs her from campus and brings her here.
And knowing that, it’s easy for me to wish I never see her again, for both our sakes.
Chapter 10
Nash
I hate his eyes on me. I hate the way they skate over every inch of my skin, cataloging the damage he’s caused. I don’t doubt Pirro is looking for fresh skin, unmarked places that he can hurt. The sadistic fuck takes so much pleasure in hurting others, I have to wonder if he’d do exactly this if I hadn’t sat across from him almost nightly while he cheated to get every penny of my money. He probably would. What he does seems just as impersonal as it does personal, and honestly, that makes no fucking sense.
Just like it doesn’t make sense that he’s just standing there, watching me, when he normally threatens me or comes into the cell to kick me or cut me.
Another man comes in, tossing a bottle of water in my direction. I’m too slow in reacting to catch it in time before it hits then bounces off my chest. I don’t hesitate to reach for it, less concerned than I should be that I’m not the first one to break the seal on the fucking thing. I guzzle the water, the bottle crinkling in my hand as I pull it away empty, a gasp on my lips for the effort it took to simply fucking drink.
I swallow repeatedly, trying not to get sick as the liquid threatens to roll right back up my throat.
More than one guy laughs as I tilt my face to the ceiling in an effort to keep from puking.
“Catch,” someone says, but he throws something else that I’m too slow to catch.
The bag makes a crinkling noise when it falls in front of me.
I could cry at the sight of the fucking sandwich, and it only proves just how fucking desperate I am for normal fucking things.
The scent of peanut butter reaches my nose the second I pull open the baggie, and despite the grape jelly on there, being the most disgusting flavor of all time, I lift the fucking thing to my mouth, unable to savor the taste as I all but inhale the damn thing.
Another round of chuckles echoes through the small room when I lift the baggie and upend it over my mouth, wanting every fucking crumb I can manage.
I have no idea how long I’ve been here. It seems like years, but if that were the case, I’d be dead. They’ve only fed me eleven times, counting this sandwich. I’m not a fucking nutritionist, but I doubt a man can live for that long on so little food.
“You’re going to fuck one of the girls today,” Pirro says, a wicked smile on his face when I lock eyes with him.
“I won’t,” I argue.
There’s a lot I’ll fucking do to survive, but rape isn’t one of them.