Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20823 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20823 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Getting physical wasn’t supposed to happen quite so soon. After all, I’m her stepfather. If she knew I’d orchestrated the whole marriage just to get close to her, it could scare her away. Is there a hope in hell of reigning in my lust now that I’ve felt her legs around my waist, though?
On the screen of my phone, she rolls over on the bed and presents her tits, arms raised over her head. She sighs and stretches, forcing me to wrap my hand around my stiffening dick, stroking it tightly and thoroughly. “Baby wants to play again?” I say, my breath quickening. “Open your legs and rub that beautiful clit. Show me where it aches.”
Instead of obeying my will, however, London sighs and bounds off the bed, crossing to her dresser and taking out a jean skirt, shucking her shorts and pulling the denim on hastily, followed by a T-shirt and flip-flops. Where is she going?
Instantly on alert, I shove my throbbing cock back into my jeans and zip up, following her progress from room to room around my house. And when I see the stubborn set to her chin and desperation in her eyes, dread invades my stomach. She might have followed through on her promise to complete the application, but she’s onto her own agenda now—and it’s up to me to stop her before she does something destructive.
I once asked Kelli why she gave her daughter the name London.
Because she’s meant for grander things than me! And doesn’t London sound grand?
That was one of the only things Kelli was ever right about. London is meant for more. She’s wily and intelligent. Funny. Beautiful. Creative. Some of the sketches in her notebooks look like they could have been done by professionals. But after a lifetime of being left in her mother’s dust, she doesn’t realize how much she deserves better. How capable she is of achieving it. And if she continues to follow the pattern she’s been on, London is probably going to do her best to get locked up again so she doesn’t have to try—and face the disappointment. It’s easier to her than failing. She’s protecting herself.
But she doesn’t have to do that anymore.
She has me.
I’m not letting her fall.
Coming to my feet, I watch the dot moving on the screen, letting me know she’s on the move, thanks to the tracking device I put in her phone last night when she finally fell asleep.
When I realize where she’s headed, I mutter a curse and snatch up my keys, running for the door.
4
London
The Devil’s Den is the place to go in town when you’re looking for trouble.
I should know, since most of my youth was spent in there, beneath the freeway overpass. From a distance, I can see that it’s the same old characters leaned up against a beat up Chrysler, passing around cigarettes and something stronger. My most recent stint in juvenile hall was six months after helping fence some stolen iPhones, so I haven’t seen these idiots in a while.
That’s exactly what they are. Idiots.
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result—and that’s what they do. Committing petty crimes, thinking they won’t get caught. At least I know I’m going to get caught. I’m well aware that the cops are going to come straight to the Devil’s Den and pull us in for a lineup as soon as the crime is committed.
I’ve had a lot of time to think over the last six months. Knowing I will be put in real prison next time I do something illegal has made me pretty introspective. And I’ve started to ask myself, why? Why do I continually let these criminals include me in their activities when I know it’s only going to land me in a cell?
Growing up, I was always shuffled to the side. Pawned off on neighbors, friends, the barest acquaintances, while my mother vamoosed with new boyfriends. For so long, going to juvenile hall was my way of controlling where I ended up. Instead of being put somewhere, like a sack of useless sand. Like someone who only gets in the way.
Now, though…I’m an adult. I can still control where I end up, but I no longer have to find refuge from my mother’s whims and her sketchy boyfriends behind bars.
What if I can actually make something of myself?
I’ve never allowed myself to wonder, but dammit, Brody got in my head.
I think that’s why I’m here, across the street from the Devil’s Den, trying to psyche myself up to make my triumphant return. Because I’m scared.
Shit. I hate admitting that.
This is what I know, though. I know how to mess up, get sent away, continue the pattern. It’s been my safety net for so long, but I’m not a kid anymore. The consequences are more severe. Am I really willing to chance prison so I don’t have to expect more from myself?