Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
“We don’t have to tell your mother if we kill someone; it can be our little secret. But speaking of your mother, she’s not going to be happy. She only flew in tonight, and you had her worried.”
The guilt immediately floods me. My mother embraces the dark within my father, but she’s far more the worrying type, and I know she’s probably pacing the house, waiting for my return. It’s moments like this that I feel like a child again.
I explain everything that happened in detail, leaving out one fact—that I know Braxton.
When we arrive at my parents’ house, my mother is waiting at the front of their three-story home. She immediately runs down the stairs and pulls my door open.
“You’re okay?” she asks, a tenor in her tone..
“Yes,” I tell her before she pulls me in for a hug. She smothers me, but I hug her back since it’s been about a month since I last saw her in person. With both of us traveling so much for our respective art, it feels like it’s been forever, even though we FaceTime almost daily.
“Let her get into the house,” my father says, chuckling as he embraces us both and then leads us to the door.
I silently thank him, and my mother laughs, bumping against my hip as if I betrayed her by taking his side. She catches me before I stumble over.
“Oh my, you’re drunk,” she chides.
“We should get her a bodyguard for when—”
“No!” I yell, interrupting him. “We discussed this. When I turned twenty-one, there would be no more security.”
My mother bites her bottom lip but tries not to laugh as my father practically sulks as we walk back into the house.
“I was worried,” she continues as she pulls me in for another hug.
“I’m fine. Just need a shower and some sleep.”
“You do reek of alcohol.” She chuckles. They seem to find it so hilarious because I don’t go out all that often. But when I do, I always end up like this. Like an alter ego of my usual quiet self comes out.
“I was drinking with Charlotte.”
“That explains it. Let me guess. She left you behind while the police cuffed you up.” When I don’t reply, she shakes her head. “I had a friend like that once. You’ll one day learn they aren’t the best type of people to have in your life. Why didn’t you ask Billie or Ivy if they were free?”
My father heads toward their bedroom, most likely going to prepare for sleep or a business meeting. Three in the morning seems like prime time for criminals to get on calls.
“Ivy’s not in the country, and Billie said she was busy this weekend, but I’ll meet with them soon.” Ivy Walker and Billie Taylor are my two closest friends. Much like me, they were raised with fathers who were on the shadier side of business. Ironically, our fathers, who all have lethal reputations, raised us like little princesses.
“Were there any boys?” she asks.
“Mo-om,” I groan. “I am not having this discussion with you. I need to sleep.”
She presses a kiss to my forehead. “Fine, but we’re going to have a serious discussion about this tomorrow.”
I roll my eyes because that isn’t going to happen. I’ve never been the bad girl type. I keep to myself and was a good student. This is the most mischief I’ve gotten up to, and it’s almost as if they’re relieved I’m living a “semi-normal” life.
I head to my room, which hasn’t changed much since I was a teenager, and fall onto my bed.
I’ve considered getting my own place, but I travel so much that I’m rarely in one place for any length of time.
“I knew I left this here,” I say to myself as I reach for my phone on my bedside table.
After having a shower and getting into bed, I check my Instagram page. It’s become a habit. I have over one million followers, and I’m always curious as to what they’re saying about my new collections. Not that I care so much what they think, but I’m always intrigued as to how many people truly understand the message I’m trying to send through my sculptures.
I have a new message, which isn’t uncommon. Most of the time, I ignore them. But the name of the account is what has me opening it.
Hello, Shortcake…
I stare at it, thinking this night couldn’t have gone any more astray. Why the fuck is Braxton Hero messaging me? Is he seriously trying to get himself killed?
I don’t reply. Instead, curiosity gets the better of me, and I stalk his profile.
“Boring,” I say on a yawn. He barely has any photos, and those he does have are of him and his workmates when he’s receiving awards. A real A+ plus type of guy—the furthest thing from the man I met four years ago, who strangled me in pleasure.