Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
It wasn’t a lie. She was cleithrophobic. Even though there was plenty of space in here, the thought of being trapped, of being unable to move about freely, or to leave anytime she wanted scraped at her nerve endings and left her feeling on edge and short of breath. The pills helped calm her, but if her situation didn’t improve, her increasing fear and anxiety would override the medication.
This was her worst nightmare.
She didn’t even want to consider how she’d react if he carried out his threat to have her arrested. She didn’t think she could stand being kept in a jail cell.
Last night she’d been too tired to really think about it, and there’d been a sense of optimism, the absolute belief that everything would be sorted out in the morning. Today, there was only the prospect of two endless weeks imprisoned within just these walls. With nothing for company except her own thoughts. And God knew, her thoughts tended to veer toward histrionics and chaos rather than calm and logic.
She was about to descend into a chaotic whirlpool of worst-case scenarios when the lock clicked again. Her head whipped up and her heart leapt in the hope that he’d changed his mind. The door opened and a big, veined hand clutching her smaller carry-on suitcase appeared around the edge of the wood. The case was deposited on the floor, and nudged inward, before the door abruptly shut and locked again.
The hope in her chest shriveled and died, but she shoved it aside and focused on her case. It matched the big one. Neon pink and hard shelled. It looked none the worse for wear and for the first time Iris dared to hope that the interior had remained dry despite the deluge that had fallen—was still falling—from the skies over the course of the last twelve hours.
There was mud caked around the wheels and the bottom of the case, but it was still sealed.
Her laptop was in the case and Iris sent up a quick prayer to every deity she could think of before rolling the case to the small sitting room, sinking down onto the carpet, laying the small bag on its side, and unzipping it slowly.
She held her breath as she opened it, and then exhaled slowly as she cast an eye over the not-at-all wet—or even slightly damp—interior. Her laptop was in its protective lime green neoprene sleeve, the surface of which was dry to the touch.
She carefully unzipped the bag, and her laptop was nestled in there, looking just fine.
Iris exhaled slowly, thankful for this one good thing that had happened in the last forty-eight hours.
She considered the new title of her article.
How I Was Imprisoned by That Surly Bastard, Trystan Abbott.
Okay, that was a little rough… but it was only a working title. Still, if TDH wouldn’t sit down to the agreed-upon interview with her, then she would have to write an honest account of her extremely negative experience with him. And he wouldn’t be able to deny any of it. Because if he made good on his promise to have her arrested, then Iris would have her newly acquired future criminal record to back up the facts of her story.
She inhaled deeply, trying to center herself, and lay her big suitcase beside the smaller one. She eyed the cable tie for a moment, before grabbing a pair of kitchen scissors from the knife rack. She had her bag open in no time at all.
She spent the next half-hour pleasantly occupied with packing her clothes into the small closet and chest of drawers in the bedroom. It soothed her to have some familiar things around. Her laptop sat on the round dining table and her e-reader on the nightstand. Her toiletries and cosmetics were dotted around the bedroom and bathroom. She changed into her favorite jeans, and an oversized fluorescent yellow hoodie. She’d packed enough clothes to last for at least two weeks, and twice as many panties and bras.
Mr. Quinn had arranged for her to spend three weeks with his client, but Iris wasn’t always the most organized of people and she’d been concerned that she may have under packed for the trip. But she was happy to note that she’d brought enough warm clothing and underwear to last for the duration of her stay. Hoodies, cardigans, jeans and sweatpants, lots of short-sleeved tees though—she rolled her eyes at the sight of those—and a flippin’ bikini, of all things.
She’d also packed—thank the gods of small things—socks! So many, many warm pairs of thick socks. She immediately rolled a pair onto her cold, numb feet and spent a few minutes massaging some warmth back into her extremities.
Once she was fully unpacked, she tucked her suitcases into an out-of–the-way corner in the small living room and curled up with her laptop on the big easy chair facing the front door, hoping to find an email from Mr. Quinn. She didn’t necessarily believe Trystan Abbott about his manager being uncontactable. It beggared belief that an important, busy man like Mr. Quinn wouldn’t check his phone at least once a day.