Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
I wished that I could be with him, in his bed right then, just like he asked. Anywhere but driving around Nashville with my drug-addled brother intent on robbing a pharmacy would be preferable. But Porter’s bed especially would be like heaven.
George pulled into the parking lot of the treatment center, now driving more calmly. There were no jerky starts and stops. He seemed focused on the task, gliding the car into a spot at the back of the lot. I was about to reach for my door handle when he pushed an arm past me, opening the glove box. Inside, a plastic bag with four little white pills crumpled into his hand.
“What’s that?” I asked, though I knew damned well what it was. He must have hidden his stash in the glove compartment when I was in the back seat. Somehow, the fact that he had used my car to transport drugs made me angrier than being kidnapped. How dare he? “I hope you choke on them.” I narrowed my eyes and spat the words.
He grinned, fishing two out of the bag and slipping them onto his tongue. He made a point of showing me by lengthening his tongue, and I thought I caught a glimpse of the child he once had been. Swallowing the pills without water, he stuffed the remainder back into the glove box.
“No,” I said stubbornly, making a play for the illegal narcotics. Out of all the injustices he had visited upon me, stuffing his poison in my space seemed like the worst.
He slammed the butt of his gun down on my wrist, chasing my hands away. I cried out in frustration and pain. I didn’t want the damned things in my car. He motioned to me that I should get out, shooing me away and slamming the glove box closed. I wrenched the door open and stomped out.
“You know what to do?” he asked, meeting me on my side of the car.
“Yes,” I said. I knew exactly what to do; it just wasn’t what he wanted me to do.
We approached the treatment center together, George holding me by the arm, the gun to my side. The early evening was calm, no voices or movement anywhere to impede our progress. I marched confidently into my place of employment, through the public entryway. There were cameras in the lobby, and I knew that from here on, everything we did would be recorded. There was a guard in a back office who should be watching the footage, though he had a dozen screens to sift through. If I was lucky, he was paying attention, and I was no longer alone.
In order to get into the locked area, you had to have a badge. I had left mine at my apartment, and George was so out of it, he hadn’t bothered with that detail. Visitors had to sign in at the main desk, where they were photographed and granted a temporary pass. I approached the receptionist, showing her my bound hands.
“He has a gun,” I said calmly.
She reached under the counter and touched the button before putting her hands in the air. That was it; I was sure now that the police would be on their way. It was just a matter of minutes before they arrived to take control of the situation. Between then and now, all I had to do was stall.
“Open the door,” George said.
“I can’t do that,” the receptionist whispered.
“It’s okay,” I said.
She looked at me, and even though we couldn’t talk, she understood. Without further encouragement, she slid a temporary card across the desk. I picked it up and swiped it across the card reader, opening the door to the patient area.
“Put your gun away,” I told him. “You’re only going to scare people.”
“That’s exactly what I want,” he growled, yanking me tight against his side.
I ground my teeth together.
“Where’s the pharmacy?” he snarled.
“On the second floor.”
“Where’s the stairs?”
I pointed, and he strode toward them, pulling me in his wake. I saw the frightened forms of my patients cowering in doorways and under tables. It was the stuff of nightmares, a crazed gunman on the loose inside the facility. I fought to keep my breath even. If I could just maintain a sense of calm and impart that feeling onto my brother, maybe I could pull off this impossible stunt. I was so close to achieving my goal, if I could just hold out for a few minutes longer.
The stairwell door closed behind us, and George took the stairs two at a time. He seemed to understand that he had very little time, and I didn’t want to anger him by moving slowly. I had an altogether different plan in mind.
We broke out onto the second floor, and he hesitated. “Which way?”
“That way.” I pointed. “Room 204C.”