Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
I just need the right moment.
A distraction. The gun pointed away from Story.
My beautiful, brave swallow reads my mind. She rams her guitar case into her captor’s belly. I take the shot across the back seat, then shoot the guy in the front passenger seat.
I have the driver’s throat in my hand. I snap his neck.
I shut the back door and wipe my prints from the handle. Running around to the other side, I shove Story’s captor’s body in the back seat, shut the door and wipe those prints, too.
Story’s backed up, shock still frozen on her face. Her eyes are twice the size they usually are.
Fuck!
I point to my Denali, praying she won’t run from me, but to my relief, she dashes to the Denali and climbs in. She still trusts me. Even after what she just saw.
I roll down the window on the driver’s side, put the car in drive and shove the driver’s foot over to the gas. Then I steer through the window to get the car out of Rue’s parking lot. When I get it into the alley, I point it down the street, jogging with it for a half a block until I’m sure it will keep going straight onto a major road.
I whip around to see headlights behind me, but they’re my own Denali, Story behind the wheel.
That’s my girl.
I run for it, throwing open the driver’s door as she climbs into the passenger side, acrobatic as ever.
I’ve never felt the need to speak more. I reach over and take Story’s hand at the same time I take off out of there, driving backward down the alley with my lights off until I’m out of the neighborhood.
The fact that she hasn’t spoken scares the shit out of me. I’m sure she’s in shock. I can’t say how fucking grateful I am that she got in my Denali of her own volition.
Because if she hadn’t, I would’ve had to force her. Story is no longer safe. That much is clear. Because I don’t know if I eliminated the real threat tonight or just another hired gang.
Story’s eyes are wide, and her breath rasps in and out, but she’s craning her neck, looking over her shoulder. She hasn’t shut down completely.
I want to tell her it’s okay.
I won’t let anyone hurt her.
I need her to come with me to lie low for a while.
I want to say I’m sorry. So fucking sorry. Nothing surpasses my anguish at having put her in danger this way. I made her a target. It’s unforgivable.
“Where are we going?” she asks once.
I reply with what I hope is a reassuring squeeze of her hand. Her phone rings, but she doesn’t answer it.
I drive straight to my place in Ravil’s building—what the neighbors have dubbed “the Kremlin” because the entire building is filled with Russians. When I park and turn off the car, Story turns to me. Her face is pale and serious.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Fuck.
I get out and walk around to open her door, but she’s already hopped out, her guitar strap looped over her shoulder.
I cup her face and peer down into it, stroking her cheeks with my thumbs.
She nods. “I’m okay.”
Fuck. Her mind-reading thing only makes me twenty thousand times more addicted to her.
I draw in a relieved breath and nod back. I take her hand and lead her to the bank of elevators, swiping my card that gets me to the top floor. The penthouse suite Ravil shares with his cell.
Since he had a baby boy in November, I keep waiting for Ravil to kick us all out—to move us to a different floor, so he can use the penthouse for his new family. But apparently, his new wife Lucy doesn’t mind.
The other newlyweds—Maxim and Sasha don’t seem to mind communal living either. Which, frankly, is all the better for me. It’s harder to disappear in a smaller group, and disappearing is definitely my game.
My suite has its own entrance from the elevator hallway, which is good because it’s late. Even if it weren’t, I wouldn’t subject Story to the chaos of the group right now.
I think the private entrance is supposed to make up for the fact that I don’t have a view of the lake, not that it matters to me. My floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the city.
I swipe my keycard through the lock and push the door open. The shades are drawn, and the suite is dark.
Story steps in, and I flick on a lamp, so she can see. Everything in the penthouse is expensive and tasteful, but the decorator Ravil hired got the message that I wasn’t interested in anything fancy, so she left it mostly empty. There’s a minimalist king platform bed, low to the ground, and a large overstuffed chair. The end tables and dresser are mid-century modern teak. There’s a small table with two chairs in front of the window. It’s probably all expensive—I don’t know. I don’t care about any of it. It’s a place to sleep—that’s all that matters to me.