Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 54645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Trent
The reality of what is happening hits me like a slap to the face. “Shit!” I spring from the bed and tear down to the kitchen, frantically searching for Trent.
But the place is silent. No car, no limo, and no way to reach him. I still haven’t persuaded him to get a cell yet. I plant my face in my hands, standing naked in the kitchen, feeling like I’m in a nightmare and I can’t wake up.
If he gets to my apartment, there’s a good chance he’s going to see things he doesn’t want to see—even the place itself might make him go ballistic but I guess that ship has sailed. Edward. I thought he was supposed to be my limo driver, not Trent’s spy.
But there’s nothing I can do. Nothing. And the minutes feel like hours as the microwave clock seems to stop completely.
I pace around, my heart in my throat, waiting for the sound of a car pulling down the long drive.
But there is nothing and no one.
I open the refrigerator and for a second, all my other worries evaporate. Inside, there’s a stuffed Hello, Kitty staring back at me. I pull the stuffie out and squeeze it to my chest taking a long breath.
I set it on the counter and force myself to eat part of an apple and drink a glass of water and then go upstairs. At the top of the landing, I see something I hadn’t noticed earlier. Trent must have sent the driver or someone out shopping, because there are two huge bags of clothes and a big laundry basket of folded, clean panties, bras, shorts and tank tops. He has thought of almost everything.
Everything he’s bought me, or had bought for me, is cute and sweet. At first glance I assumed the basket would be full of sexy lacy things, but it isn’t. It’s all comfy, and practical, and cozy. Like he knows I love.
I choose a few items to dress, then as I pick up the basket of clothes, I feel a deep throb of soreness radiating out from my pussy. And then I freeze, realizing that in the heat of the moment, in all that lust and need, we didn’t use any protection.
Oh god.
If I make a baby with him, it’s going to be…
Insane. Absolutely insane. That is the word.
But not nearly as insane, honestly, as what’s going to happen if Trent shows up at my apartment with a U-Haul to pack me up, only to find that scumbag Romanovski waiting for me.
I can see it now. I’ll be pregnant and he’ll be in jail for murder.
A perfect romance, really. Just one big happy family.
Shit.
The anxiety of waiting for Trent triggers old thoughts, terrible thoughts. Memories of the night my parents died. I was coming home from classes. The sun was down, the air was cool. The first frost was close. I remember that.
I came around Davidson Avenue just in time to see a black Mercedes scream past me, swerving, nearly hitting me. The right side of the car was smashed in, then the driver tossed out a liquor bottle and I saw the white streaks of paint on the crunched-in door. I slammed on my brakes and then, up ahead, I saw it. My parents’ mini-van spinning on its top in the middle of the road.
I sped forward, I think. I must have, but I don’t remember. A second took an hour. And however long later, a heartbeat or twenty, I was at their van. My frantic call to 911 was answered by a recording. And I was on hold and on hold, while blood poured from my dad’s forehead, and Mom hung limp and upside down, suspended like a parachuter from her seatbelt.
Tick-tick-tick went the van’s engine. The smell of gas, of rubber. The street was dark, one overhanging streetlamp flickering as I looked frantically in circles. Searching for help.
“911. What’s your emergency?” The voice was mechanical, robotic. Indifferent.
“My parents, they’ve been in an accident on the corner of Davidson and…” I had to crane my neck around to see a street sign. “Linwood! Davidson and Linwood. Please, hurry, they’re bleeding. Please!”
Just as the operator put me on hold to call dispatch, the whirring sound of an engine filled the air. In the darkness, I turned, hoping for a savior but it was the black Mercedes. It approached slowly, coming tentatively around the corner. Shiny wheels sounding sticky on the asphalt.
It slowed to a menacing stop. The window slid down and a barrel-chested, ruddy-faced man glared at me and somehow I knew, it wasn’t from here. It was a face from another time. Another place.
“You saw nothing, little girl,” he growled with a thick Russian accent. “You never saw me here.”
My chest clenched. He wasn’t here to help. He was here to threaten.