Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 185811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 929(@200wpm)___ 743(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 185811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 929(@200wpm)___ 743(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
She struggled with the four bags across the sidewalk to her dented blue door. When she’d been looking, the only vacancy had been on the street level, but she was on the list to move higher if a place opened up. She twisted the knob. Yep. Unlocked. Her stomach cramping, she walked inside and locked the door behind herself. She had definitely locked it that morning. How had Monte gotten in?
The entryway was made up of six cracked gray tiles that led to the living room, which held a battered brown sofa on shag gray carpet. She’d tried to brighten the room with damask pillows from the dollar store, but the place still smelled like cigarette smoke.
Straightening, she walked past the metal coffee table to the kitchen alcove, where she was able to touch all three walls without moving from the middle dingy tile. It was small, but she kept it very clean. Usually.
Several broken dishes littered the small sink. Damn it. She didn’t have many. Why had he felt the need to break the dishes she’d purchased just last week with her most recent paycheck? Now she needed new dishes. How much did a locksmith cost, anyway? It was probably too expensive to buy new locks.
Tears welled in her eyes and she quickly put away the groceries. Calling the police would be a waste of time. Monte would probably convince them she’d done it herself. Jerk. She’d been planning on leaving town at the end of the month, and Monte had fixed that by getting her put on probation. Now she was stuck for six months, and who knew what damage he could do in that time?
She moved to the sofa and gingerly sat, pain rippling up her side from the punch to the ribs she’d taken. What could she do? If she left town, she’d be breaking the law, and her probation would be revoked. If she kept her head down and tried to survive the next six months of probation, Monte would certainly make another move. She could give in and move back with him, live out the next six months and then leave in the dark of night, but he’d know of a way to stop her.
There wasn’t a good way out. No safe way with a guaranteed outcome of her finding freedom the heck away from this town.
It’d be nice to have a friend to call, but all of her friends had sided with Monte in the divorce. They’d been his friends first, anyway. Why had she given up her entire life in Miami to live in this podunk town with him? Just because he’d saved her after a car crash?
Two years of hell made up for that. It had to.
Time to shake it off. She stood and turned for the utilitarian bedroom and changed into a clean pair of jeans and a pink T-shirt. Grabbing her purse, she ran back outside and drove to the other side of town, rushing inside the wooden log building just in time for her shift.
The establishment was a decade-old neighborhood grill with round tables, large booths, and the smell of good food wafting around.
The manager was a frazzled guy named Glen who ran the place for his father-in-law, who had owned the quaint bar for eons. He tossed her an apron as he ran toward the cash register at the far end. “You already have two tables waiting,” he said, not unkindly, his thinning brown hair slicked back and revealing parts of his scalp.
“Thanks.” She caught it and wrapped the material around her waist while walking toward her section. It was her second month on the job, and she had finally gotten the routine down. The first table held a couple of high school girls who’d already spread out books and papers to study. They predictably ordered burgers and milkshakes.
The next table held a family of four with the cutest toddler she’d ever seen. A little brown-eyed boy with a button nose. They ordered quickly, and she took both orders back to the kitchen, where Buck the cook was already sizzling delicious smelling stir fry on one of the burners. Buck was an ex-marine about eighty years old who wielded a spatula like most men would a knife. He did his job, rarely smiled, but didn’t yell, either.
Her stomach growled. When had she last eaten? Smiling, she handed over the orders and hustled back out of the kitchen to see a third table occupied in her section.
A slow roll of heat coiled through her abdomen, and she stumbled. What was wrong with her? Plastering a polite smile on, she moved though the booths and tables toward them. “I thought you two were going for pizza,” she said to Noah Siosal. Why had she told them where she worked? Had she subconsciously wanted to see them again?