Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
“Wait… torture?”
I’m so accustomed to the dark side of life that sometimes I forget there are civilians out there, regular people just going about their business. Innocent, beautiful people like Emma cringe at the idea of things that, to me, seem normal, the way things have always been and will always be. But nobody is as beautiful as Emma.
“That isn’t important,” I grunt.
“We can talk about it if you want,” she says quietly.
“It’s like not that,” I tell her. “I haven’t got all these feelings waiting to burst out. I’m not scarred or haunted by any of this. I’m just a machine; my function is to keep you and your dad safe.”
“That’s what you want people to think.”
I grind my teeth, shaking my head, refusing to look at her in the rearview. If I did that, she’d see how right she is.
CHAPTER FOUR
EMMA
Imust fall asleep at some point. After the conversation with Jacob, I lean against the window, close my eyes, and try to think about what kind of torture he went through. My mind hazes and blisters at the idea. It’s all too awful, but that’s just crap because if he has to face it, I feel like I have to as well, which is complete craziness. We’re not a couple. There’s no reason I should think this is the case, but somehow, it is.
When I wake up, snow is flurrying against the window. We’re driving down a dark road with tall trees on either side. Dad must’ve woken at some point. He reclined his seat and pulled his jacket over him.
“Why didn’t you ask Dad to help drive? Or me?” I say, feeling far closer to Jacob than I have any right to.
“I don’t mind driving, and I wouldn’t have slept.”
He speaks in that dark, mysterious tone that drew me in and made me obsess over him for so many hours, hundreds of hours, maybe even thousands. But that seems like silly little girl stuff compared to this, after what we’ve shared, which, seemingly, he’ll never acknowledge. What do I want him to do, yell about it in front of Dad?
“Do you have trouble sleeping?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” he says.
“Sue me,” I snap, a shiver of something warm sizzling in my belly. It feels like a small rebellion whenever I talk back to him like this. That should probably make me feel super pathetic, but it doesn’t. “Anyway, this is the first time you’ve ever really spoken to me.”
“You were Mike’s daughter before,” he says.
“Uh, what? I am now, right?”
He glances at me with those intense eyes, but there’s something else in them, something I never expected to see radiating from a man as tough as him—panic. He didn’t mean to say that. I was Mike’s daughter, but now, I’m more to him.
“I’m not good with kids,” he grunts.
“Luckily, I’m not a kid anymore then, right?”
He lets out a breath that’s difficult to read. Difficult to read or not, it sends another shiver throughout my body. Over the past half year, I’ve been trying to convince myself what we shared was tragic, not steamy. Some touching, some kissing, and then I’m on my knees with the taste of him in my mouth.
Yet, every time I think about it, I heat up. My body aches like it’s telling me to do it again. It’s yelling at me to make it different this time. I’ll be able to give more of myself to him and show how hot I can be, how sexual. Just because I couldn’t do it the first time…
“Eighteen isn’t exactly a mature adult, no offense.”
I wonder what Dad would make of this comment if he weren’t asleep. On the surface, this could be friendly and tired chitchat. “I’m nineteen now, so, basically, I’m the most mature person you’ve ever met.”
He chuckles, lighting me up like I can’t believe. I’ve just learned there is a psycho criminal out there on the hunt for Dad and me, and I’m smiling. I can’t remember ever making Jacob laugh during the crush days. The crush days… It already feels like a different era.
“If that’s the case, then how mature am I at forty-two?” He says his age with emphasis as if he’s making a point. Then he goes on in a darker tone as if he really wants to drive the point home. “That’s twenty-three years more experience on you.”
I press my legs together. This is so wrong, with Dad sleeping right there, but something about him emphasizing his experience in that dark, broody tone has me aching. There’s something so hot about him leading the way and showing me what to do. But what if he only ever wants it seedy and secret and then forgotten about?
“I guess I seem like a kid to you, then,” I say, staring out the window.