Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
“We’re done here.” Leka reaches down to his ankles and I notice for the first time that he was tied to the chair. He slices through the bindings with the knife he slid off the table. He rises slowly, holding his right arm close to his side.
“Wait. I said, wait!” Cesaro nearly stamps his foot.
“This woman killed Arturo,” Sterno replies. His face is stone. “She is more important than him.”
The other men murmur their agreement and it is the threat of his men turning on him that pushes Cesaro to give in. He glowers and spits out one last threat. “Just remember. Death is the only way out, Leka Moore! You can’t run from me. We own you. Both of you.”
“Go,” Sterno orders.
We don’t have to be told twice.
* * *
I tuck an arm around Leka’s back, helping him as much as I can. He walks out slow, with each breath a labored, harsh effort.
“We can’t go to a doctor, can we?”
He shakes his head. “No, but you can pick up a couple of things for me at the drugstore. We’ll stop on our way home. You’ll need to listen to me, carefully, okay? And do as I ask. No questions."
“Yes. I promise.” I want to sob with relief and terror and guilt, but I know that would hurt Leka as much as anything, so I keep a lid on my emotions as we walk to the end of the alley. Each step is slower than the last, and I worry that he won't make it.
"Why don't you tell me what hurts so I can get the right stuff."
"What doesn’t?" he jokes and then groans. "Shit. I can't laugh. Okay, so cracked ribs, some damage to my fingers. Maybe a broken femur."
I die a little inside. Some damage to his fingers? I caught a glimpse of them on the table and the last two on his right hand were mangled. "What about the stuff we can't see? Do you have any bleeding inside?"
"No."
"How do you know?"
He stops walking and spits on the ground. "See?" He gingerly toes the wet spot on the ground. "No blood. It's all good. You came down just in time."
"Right. That’s me with the perfect timing,” I say sarcastically. I should've started a fire earlier or called the police. Anything to have gotten him out sooner. Guilt and shame mix together to make a sickly cocktail in my stomach.
When we arrive at his car, I hold my hand out. "I'm driving."
He gives up the keys without an argument and slides into the passenger side, wincing with all the pain.
"The city roads are shit," I curse as I avoid yet another pothole.
Leka's trying to keep his pain complaints to a minimum. Sweat breaks across his forehead and his breathing is even more forced. I wish he'd just pass out.
"I'm going to stop at the Duane Reade near our apartment," I tell him.
He nods weakly and closes his eyes. The drive home is as smooth as I can make it, but I know from the occasional clenching of his jaw that this is terrible for him.
When I pull up to the grocery store, he rouses. "Get a brace for my fingers. Some antiseptic and a couple of bottles of vodka."
“I’m underage,” I remind him.
He taps his elbow against the middle console. Inside, I find a wad of cash and two passports fastened with a rubber band. I pull off the rubber band and two plastic ID cards fall on my lap. The driver's licenses are from Arizona, a state I've never visited, and the last name is Reed not Moore. Mine says that I'm twenty-two. I pocket the fake ID, and despite the new fear these forms of identification stir, I manage a light-hearted quip. “I could’ve used this years ago. I would’ve been the most popular girl at Boone.”
A faint smile ghosts across his face. “Popularity that you buy is fake. I had to protect you from that.”
I want to scream for him to stop protecting me because if he doesn't he'll die, but this is what I begged and pleaded for, so I have no one to blame but myself. I stuff my fear and anxiety and guilt down deep. Those emotions aren't going to help me here. Leka needs a clear head and a steady hand, not angst-driven emo self-pity parties.
"So you're going to do this with one hand tied behind your back and drunk to boot. Very boss." I grab my purse.
"The liquor's for after,” he says grimly.
“Got it.” I’m thrilled he’s thinking that far ahead and terrified that he’s going out alone against Cesaro with a broken arm, cracked ribs, two mangled fingers and who knows what else.
I run out and get the stuff. It takes only a few more minutes to get to the apartment. I fish out a hundred-dollar bill from Leka's emergency stash.