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)
He tries to kiss me again, but I pull back and stand.
Fuck.
What have I done?
I cross the room, my mind racing as I consider taking my chance to kill him now. The gun is in my hand, so why the fuck am I walking in the opposite direction to get my clothes?
I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I’m covered in bite marks, and my skin is smeared with blood, and I don’t even know if it’s his or mine.
I glance back at Braxton, who is now relaxed back in the chair, even though he’s still cuffed to it. “So you’re just going to run away?”
“It was fun, but I have to go now,” I say, sliding on my underwear. I search for my shirt and find it poking out from under the bed.
“You liked that as much as I did,” he states.
I reach under the bed to grab my shirt, and that’s when I see the box with all of my statues in it. My heart skips a beat at knowing he kept them, and it only riles this wild thing that’s trying to free the room.
“I did.” I try to sound unaffected as I pull my clothes on. Because, like, is an understatement. In that moment, my suspicions became a reality. I don’t hate Braxton. I don’t like Braxton. I’m in love with Braxton. And this type of love is not made to last.
“You know neither of us can run away from this, Shortcake. You’re acting like a coward.”
I turn, swinging the gun in his direction. That’s when I see he’s no longer cuffed to the chair.
His expression is smug as he removes the cuff from around his wrist. “Do you really think I don’t know how to remove my own cuffs?” he scoffs as he saunters toward me. “Now, let’s talk about this like adults.” He steps in close enough that the muzzle of the gun presses directly over his heart.
“There’s nothing to discuss. If I’m gone for too long, my family will notice.”
He chuckles. “How much longer do you plan on hiding?”
“Excuse me?”
“I know all of your secrets, Shortcake. I know who you are as much as I know myself.”
“Sounds pretty fucked up, then.”
His smile twists. “Oh, it is. We are.”
Again, he tries to soothe my inner depraved self. But I know it’s wrong. Even if he does see me, it doesn’t make it right.
His hand slowly curls around the barrel of the gun, and I squeeze the trigger ever so slightly as I imagine blood bursting across the dining table. It’d be magnificent. But, instead, I let him take the gun from me. The moment it’s gone, he reaches for me, but I step back.
“T-this was the l-last time, okay?” I stammer, then run for the door.
“Shortcake, we’re not done here!” he shouts, but my fingers are already on the doorknob.
“Bye.” I yank the door open, glancing back over my shoulder briefly. His blue eyes are locked on me, like a predator’s, his jaw clenched as he lowers the gun to his side. Giving him a small wave, I slam the door behind me and call my driver. I run down the stairs as fast as my legs will take me, terrified he might chase after me.
I’m sick. I’m sick, right? There’s something wrong with me?
It’s not love. It’s just a sickness. I’ve been brainwashed. That has to be it!
As I exit the building, I catch sight of the woman who was at his door almost an hour ago. His mother looks like the picture I saw of her in the files, just a little more run down. Quickly averting my gaze, I stand close to the curb, impatiently waiting for my driver to answer. Maybe I should walk up a few blocks so no one knows I came from Braxton’s house. I decide on that as I drop a pin for my driver.
“You were in his apartment,” she says desperately from behind me. I glance over my shoulder and step away from her outstretched hand. She looks me over from head to toe.
“Sorry?” I’m already uncomfortable. I don’t want to be speaking to her right now. This has nothing to do with me.
“You know my son. You have to tell him to help me.” She reaches for me again, but I move out of her range. I take in what she’s wearing and wonder how she’s not freezing in this frigid weather. She rubs her arms, but I don’t think it has anything to do with the chill of the early morning and everything to do with the track marks marring her skin. “I’ll give you anything you want, tell you anything you want about him.”
Wow, okay. That’s weird and desperate.
“Anything,” she whispers insistently.
As curious as I might be about Braxton, I want no version of him that she’s created a narrative for. It’s obvious to me that she has no idea who her son is. It’s sad, really.