Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“I’ll feed you,” he says, his eyes darker.
My stomach flutters at the look in his eyes and I’m imagining him feeding me. I want that. I want more of what we did together yesterday, even knowing I shouldn’t. I need to divert him right now though and figure out exactly what I’m going to do.
“Max, this is ridiculous, it’s not like I can get away from you. Just let me loose so I can eat, and while we’re talking about it, I need to use the facilities, so…” I trail off wiggling the chain again.
He frowns, but pulls a key out of his pocket and undoes my lock. I rub my wrist, from reflex. It doesn’t really hurt; Max fixed the cuff so that it was very loose. I just don’t like the idea of being restrained. A flash of need has me picturing myself restrained; naked while Max is over me…I ignore it. That’s definitely not going to help me clear my head and figure out what to do.
“The facilities, Kitten, are an old lard bucket behind that row of shelves,” Max says, watching every move I make.
“A lard bucket?”
“No indoor plumbing in a cheap underground survival shelter,” he returns in his wry, statement-of-fact voice that I’m either beginning to really like or hate. It’s a toss-up.
“Of course not, was he afraid the zombies would crawl up the drains?” I ask, going behind the shelves.
“Don’t know, never cared enough to ask. You sure know an awful lot about me.”
My face flames and I’m glad I’m behind the shelves. Did I give away too much? Would he know how I’ve sat alone at night and combed over his files and pictures, enthralled with his life? Could he guess that before I even saw him at the prison yesterday, looking so cold and aloof, but still devastatingly handsome, that I was already infatuated with him? It makes me sound like a kook. I get that. Hell, I’m starting to think I am completely crazy. If you add in my reaction to him and the fact that I don’t hate him or want to maim him right now, I just might be certifiably insane.
“I told you, I had to research the file that the county of Ormond has on you to prepare for your parole hearing,” I lie and it is a straight-up, bald-faced lie.
“I thought you said your boss threw this on you yesterday morning, without warning?”
I forgot about the high intelligence notes the warden and guards reported about Max.
“He did, but I am the one who prepares his arguments and notes,” I return, carefully avoiding his eyes, in case he can see the lies on my face. “Do we have water and you know, maybe some soap?” I finally ask, to divert him. I need to stop talking about this. I’m afraid of what more I might give away.
“Over by the old basin.”
I look in the direction he gestures and see an old, silver, antique wash basin and pitcher and beside it is a gallon jug of water. I wash my hands quickly and come back to the bed and grab the food that Max gave me earlier. He has a similar-looking plate on his bed, and I’m secretly excited as a teenage girl over Justin Bieber. Inside there’s a part of me squealing that I get to eat breakfast with Max Kincaid.
I take a hesitant bite of the eggs. It’s definitely not five-star cuisine, but passable. The bacon is very disappointing, but I manage to swallow down a couple of strips. The toast is…yeah, I’m not touching whatever that is.
“Umm…what are these things?” I ask looking at my plate dubiously, after tasting the cardboard…err…bread and putting it back down quickly.
“Kind of a homemade version of an MRE,” he says, having downed all of his and finished his drink from the box. I carefully puncture mine and stick the attached straw in it. It’s not horrible, I’m not sure you could call it orange juice, but the flavor is kind of there, so I drink it.
“A MR what?”
“A MRE, Meal ready to eat. The military feeds them to astronauts or soldiers overseas. National Guard also…”
“They feed our soldiers this? That’s horrible! They deserve real food. Why…”
His laughter stops the beginning of my tirade. It’s a beautiful sound, and it’s a sound that if I never hear it again for the rest of my life, I will still never forget it.
“There isn’t really restaurants or even ways to cook in times of war.”
Okay so he’s right, but still.
I stop thinking at all when Max gets down on his knees in front of me. Heck, I’m not sure I can find my voice. For the first time, I allow myself to look at Max Kincaid, and I mean really look. He’s wearing a worn, faded white t-shirt that looks bright next to his dark skin. He’s got jeans on that seem a little tight, but he wears them perfectly. His five o’clock shadow gives his face even more depth and somehow highlights those dark, soulful eyes of his even more. I can see the tattoo he has on his shoulder peak out from under the t-shirt, and I wish I could see the rest of it. His file says he has eight tattoos, and I’ve always wanted to see each one personally. Certifiably insane.