Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
The trains that go by overhead are frighteningly loud. I hear another one coming and look up at the rumbling tracks, to see them vibrate with the weight of it. I back up a few steps to get out from under it, scared the whole thing will collapse on me. Suddenly, I’m stepping into a pile of sludge as the back of my boot hits the pavement and I go down on my butt on the curb. At least I didn’t land in the sludge.
Wet snow has gotten inside my boot and it’s cold. I dig some of it out. This close to the ground I swear I smell urine and other things I don’t want to think about. Someone laughs and I look up from my seated position to find three men huddled around a fire at the next corner. They’re watching me.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. The man claiming to be Dante called me that, too. But it didn’t sound like this.
“Warm up,” one of them says. The other grins, showing a black hole where his teeth used to be.
I straighten, shake my head, turning fast, but crash right into another man.
“I’m sorry!” I start, bouncing back. The only reason I don’t fall is because someone else catches me from behind.
I look up at the first man, then turn around to the second. I pull out of his grasp. They’re heavily bearded, hair outgrown and dirty, smelly.
“Nothing to be sorry about, pretty girl.” He smiles. The teeth he still has are stained. He reaches out a dirty hand in worn gloves and fingers strands of my hair.
I back away a step, tug my hood back up.
The three in the far corner start to walk toward us and instinct takes over. I turn and run, only to hear the scream of horns when I do, the screech of brakes. I scream too, a car stopping inches from me.
One of the men behind me laughs and after a quick glance I charge across the street as the car window opens and the driver screams at me. I run for as long as I can without looking back, until I’m out of breath and have a cramp in my side. As I slow, I look over my shoulder sure the men are behind me. But the coast is clear. Just cars on the road and people rushing down the stairs from one of those platforms. A train must have just pulled in.
I stand there for a minute catching my breath, hand on my side. I look at the people in coats, some carrying briefcases, some talking into wireless earbuds in their ears. I follow a group of four women who walk down the street and enter a diner. I stop outside, my stomach rumbling at the smell wafting out, as the door swings closed. I’m so hungry. God, my stomach hurts.
The place is busy with people having food at the counter and sitting in the fifty’s style booths. Some have fancy drink glasses. The women are led to one of the few empty booths.
I take a deep breath in and walk toward the door, too. It chimes and I look up at the source of the sound. A little bell. I think everyone will turn to look at me, knowing I don’t belong here, but no one does. I step up to the counter and look at the meals the others are already eating. Plates of pasta or hamburgers and fries. My mouth waters but I don’t have time to eat. I need to hurry. This could all be a test. And I need to get to the hotel as fast as I can, or the punishment will be worse. Petrov is a sadist. He probably has someone watching me now and is gleefully counting the minutes. A stroke for each that he’ll make me count out. That’s one of his favorite punishments.
I look at the people around me, trying to work out which one works for him.
“What can I get you, hon?” a woman asks, and I turn to find a plump, middle-aged woman with graying blonde hair cleaning the counter before me. I feel that hundred-dollar bill in my pocket.
My stomach growls and I look behind her at the rows of candy and bags of chips.
“Um…” I point. “Chips please. And a candy bar.” I want warm food, but this will have to do.
She looks at me curiously for a moment and I wonder if it’s her. If she’s the one working for Petrov.
“Sure thing,” she says.
I take the now-crumpled bill out and set it on the counter. I push it toward her, and her eyebrows go up.
“That’s only a couple dollars. You don’t have anything smaller?”
I shake my head as I shove the candy bar into the pocket of my jeans and take the bag of chips. I hurry toward the door.