Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
It’s chaos. Pure chaos.
Who would do this? Who would break into my apartment and make such an insane mess? I try to see if anything is missing, but my laptop is still here, my TV is still on its stand, anything worth money is still basically where I left it—
But I know who was in here. I know who cut the knob and kicked the door in.
The black truck. The one that drove off from Sheila’s house earlier.
I yank a suitcase from the back of my closet and start throwing clothes into it. I grab as much as I can, whatever looks like it’s in one piece and relatively clean. I take what I need from the bathroom, get everything in order, and I hurry into the hall as my heart races wildly and I raise my phone to my ear.
“Angelo,” I say, breathless, and only realize I’m panicking when I hear how shrill I sound. “My apartment. It’s been ransacked. Someone broke in and threw stuff around and broke my plates and my glasses and now—”
“Slow down,” Angelo says, sounding strained. “Where are you?”
“My apartment. They came to my apartment.”
“I’ll be there in a second. Don’t get off the phone.” I hear a door open and slam, and he’s breathing hard, probably running down stairs. I hurry away from my ruined apartment breathing hard and listening to the sounds of Angelo getting into his car and starting the engine. “Don’t move. Don’t hang up.” He’s driving fast, tires squealing, and I get outside. I can’t bring myself to stay near that apartment, not for a second longer than necessary.
His breathing is a strange comfort. The anxiety in his tone pushes my own panic down a notch. I can breathe at least. I stand out front of my building with my bag, and I look around for a black truck, but there’s nothing, only normal-looking cars and normal-looking people walking past, but nothing’s normal anymore.
My life’s been ripped to shreds and my illusion of safety is gone.
A car pulls up and slams on its brakes. Angelo rolls down the window. “Get in.”
I toss my bag in the back seat and he drives fast away from the building. As soon as we’re clear, the sudden horror hits me full on, and the careful facade and the iron-laced fence I keep around my heart suddenly cracks, and I lean forward and sob into my hands.
Angelo doesn’t speak. I bet he’s bewildered. I never cry in front of people—hell, I never cry at all. But I can’t help as the tears rip themselves from my throat and my chest heaves. Someone broke into my apartment and threw my life around like it’s nothing, and if I was home when that happened then I might be dead like those cartel guys.
The car slows and stops. I don’t know where we are. I stare out from tear-blurred eyes and shake my head when Angelo offers me a tissue. I wipe my face with my hands and sleeve, feeling like an idiot, and he looks back at me with a grim frown.
“I don’t cry,” I whisper. “I never, ever cry.”
He looks surprised. “Your apartment just got violated. It’d be weird if you didn’t cry.”
I stare down at my hands, streaked with tears. “My dad would yell at me if I got upset. My mom would call me a baby and mock me viciously. I still don’t know which of them was worse, but I learned fast that crying didn’t get me anywhere in my household. If I wanted something, I needed to swallow my feelings and act like nothing mattered. At least they respected that.”
Angelo’s silent. He’s studying me, and I feel so vulnerable, which is strange. I never wanted to be vulnerable around this man, not again, but I can’t help myself. Crying like this brings back too many ugly memories—my mother, drunk, yelling as I sobbed over the death of my hamster when I was seven years old, or my father sneering as I teared up when I failed to make the varsity softball team in middle school, or a dozen other pathetic moments when I was told that my feelings were irrelevant, that I needed to shove them away and suck it up and move on. It didn’t matter if I was crying for good reason—
Tears were for babies and the weak, and weakness was not allowed in my family.
“You’ll stay with me tonight.”
I shake my head. “No. I can’t do that.”
“I have a suite. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Angelo—” I clear my throat and take a breath, trying to get myself together. “It’s not appropriate.”
“What, because I fucked you a couple months ago? Or because you’ve been touching yourself in the shower thinking about my cock between your legs?”
“God damn it, what is wrong with you?” Anger flares as I turn on him. “Why are you always like this?”