Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 94457 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94457 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
She steadies herself and shoots the rest of the rounds in the direction of the target. Only five out of the ten rounds actually hit the paper.
“That’s terrible.” Brooks walks up beside us. “Who the fuck taught you how to shoot?”
“Ahh, no one. This is my first time,” Aspen admits, shocking Brooks just as much.
“All right then, you go back to your booth, and I’ll go over everything with her.” He shoos me away, grabs the gun from Aspen’s hands, and starts explaining to her the mechanisms of the gun and the different features.
I move back to my spot, making a mental note to check Brooks out later. He clearly doesn’t know who Aspen is since he’s the only instructor so far who hasn’t treated her like a traitor.
“You going to show me how to shoot now? I could use some help.” Blond Russian girl winks.
“You look like you’re doing just fine,” I say, peeking at her target, which looks a lot like my own. Actually, I’m a little impressed with her marksmanship, but of course, I don’t comment on that.
“Maybe you can give me lessons in something else then?” she asks seductively. This is the second time she’s blatantly hit on me, and just like last time, I ignore it.
I get back to my own guns, firing off the rounds I have, reload, and repeat until I’ve gone through all the weapons and four different targets. Brooks spends most of the class with Aspen, showing her how to handle the array of guns. With each passing minute, I get more irritated, and I don’t really know why.
All I do know is that by the end of the class, I’m ready to punch a hole into Brooks’s face. He walks away and talks about cleaning weapons after lunch. Aspen walks past me, obviously trying to avoid me, but I easily catch up to her.
Grabbing her arm, I pull her into my side and lean down so I can whisper in her ear. “You still owe me an hour.”
She pulls out of my grasp with a huff and storms off as if she can get away from me. Doesn’t she know that will never happen?
22
ASPEN
Paranoia skates down my spine, and every time I walk into my bedroom and close the door, I’m waiting for the second that he comes walking in. Not knowing when Quinton plans to collect on his hour with me has me on edge. That’s a lie, not just on edge, but hanging off a cliff by my fingernails.
I hate having a favor loom over my head, even more, that it’s owed to Q, and I have no say on when he’s going to collect it. Scanning my key card, I enter the bedroom and close the door behind me. I press my back against the wood and let out a long sigh.
I don’t feel one-hundred-percent safe here, not while Quinton has a key card to my room, but I still feel more protected by these four walls than I do in all the time I spend walking the corridors between classes.
I add books to the stack that already exists on my desk and toss myself onto the bed, thankful that I have a mattress now. Damn Q and his bartering. If I wasn’t so weak, I might say no, but a lot of the things he offers help me, and I can’t pass up on a decent bed, food, and most of all, protection.
My computer is sitting on the desk beside the stack of books, and I move to grab it, opening it to check my emails. I don’t know why I bother. It’s not like anyone wants to talk to me. I almost laugh at how pathetic my life is. No friends, no one who truly cares if I’m alive. My parents act like they care, but do they really?
I’m about to close my computer and take a shower when a Skype call from an unknown number comes in. Moving the mouse to the answer button, I pause. Should I answer this call? It could be anyone. Indecision weighs heavily on my shoulders, and as if fate already knows the answer, my finger slips off the key, and I hit answer by accident.
The air in my lungs stills, and my fingers itch to grab the screen of my laptop and close it, but I choose not to at the last second, which also happens to be the same moment my father’s face appears on the screen.
I’m so shocked. All I can do is stare at the screen, wondering how the hell he managed to negotiate a Skype call from prison. On second thought, I don’t even want to know.
“Aspen, it’s nice to see you.” He smiles, and while he still looks like my father—balding head and soft green eyes—the bright orange jumpsuit and weathered look on his face reminds me of all the stress this must be putting on him.