Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 152(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 152(@300wpm)
“I don’t fucking believe it,” he growls, spotting a figure standing with her legs firmly apart, in the middle of the road ahead.
“What are you doing?” I ask, suddenly feeling alarmed when Rocco leans over, shuffling in the glove compartment.
Clicking his tongue when he finds what he’s looking for.
I stifle a scream when I see it’s a gun. My glasses tumble from my face to the floor of the car.
“I don’t fucking believe it,” he mutters again, slowing our speed. He makes me promise I’ll stay in the car no matter what happens.
I try to protest, but there doesn’t seem to be enough time, and it’s about as short as I think Rocco could ever be with me, but only because this is serious.
“Promise!” he says in a harsh tone, making me feel like I’ve upset him somehow, but drawing closer to the female standing in the rain, it all makes sense.
Maria Portello.
She’s standing, soaking wet, on the highway in the middle of a storm. Her European sports car parked at an odd angle on the curve.
The rear hood lifted up in distress, but I’m assuming that’s the extent of her mechanical skills.
All of this might be unusual, but totally okay.
Except for the fact she’s pointing a bigger gun than Rocco’s at both of us.
And technically, I’m supposed to be the kidnapped version of her.
She’s obviously not expecting to see us out here either, which for some reason, makes Rocco relax before he fully stops the car.
“I’ll be damned…I don’t fucking believe it,” is all he can say, checking his gun before moving to get out.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, gripping him by the arm, silently begging him to just keep driving instead.
But I know it’s useless. Once Rocco has his mind made up about something….
And looking at Maria Portello, I figure she looks different somehow.
And not just because she’s soaked through, looking like a zombie panda with her running makeup. No.
She looks like the girl I was earlier today.
The girl whose world was suddenly turned upside-down.
I think both Rocco and I can tell at a glance that she’s beyond upset. She’s broken down and is clearly stopping the first car she sees the best way she knows how.
It’s either the safest or most dangerous way I can think of to ask for a ride, but whatever she’s doing, it appears to be working.
Rocco lets the window down, but just an inch. I fish on the floor for my glasses but figure it can wait.
Not like we’re going anywhere just yet.
“Get out,” Maria sighs, a slight tremor of emotion in her normally bored voice.
“Don’t make me shoot you, just get out of the car, gimme the keys and fuck off,” she says, losing patience and cocking the gun that’s way too big for her to hold properly, and it slips from her grip long enough for Rocco to make his move.
He opens his driver’s side door, pushing Maria one way and the gleaming handgun in the other direction.
“Stay in the car,” Rocco growls under his breath.
But seeing Maria again has me on edge. Like something’s gonna go horribly wrong somehow, and I don’t want to be left on my own, not even for a minute.
Not even an inch from Rocco’s side.
But as I feel his scornful gaze once I leap from the car into the rain, we’re both shocked by the dry laugh that comes from Maria Portello.
I think I’ve heard the kind of beaten laugh from my own mouth sometimes.
The sound of “Really? What else is gonna happen today?”
As much as I’ve worn the same look myself, it’s not fun watching someone else go through it, not even someone like Maria Portello.
It’s sad, and long before Rocco can say anything, I’m walking over to help her up, wanting all of us off the roadside, but Rocco orders us all back into the car.
“My bag,” Maria protests, but Rocco’s already stalking toward her car, turning his head as he goes, this way and that.
Making double sure all of this isn’t a setup.
But it’s not. I can feel it. I think we all can.
“What are you doing all the way out here?” I ask her, taking a blanket from the back seat, to help her warm up at least.
“I could ask you both the same thing,” she scoffs loudly, but her eyes narrow with a bitterness I could never match.
“I think Rocco and I have one thing in common,” she muses.
I feel anger rising in me. Pure jealousy, really, that she’d even put herself in the same sentence as Rocco.
But she explains what she means as he’s getting back into the car, passing her bag over to her, which turns out to be a complete luggage set into the back seat.
“Maybe like you, Martinelli,” she says with a tone of accusation. “Maybe I saw a chance to get out myself. I was kidnapped today, remember?” she laughs scornfully, focusing her eyes on mine again for a second.