Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
“Oh, I’m not worried about how good you are,” I seek to reassure her. “I just wondered what happened?”
“It’s a private matter,” she says. “Don’t worry, I’m very familiar with the material, and you will do just as well now as you would under him.”
She has no idea how well I do under him.
“Oh, okay, thank you,” I say, gathering my books up tighter in my arms.
I leave class, reminding myself that he’s been away before and come back, but this feels worse for some reason. It’s like he owes me better than this, right? Or I guess not. Do predators worry about their victims’ feelings? Does he care about me at all? Or do I stop existing the moment he no longer needs me for anything?
I know it’s absolutely mad to think that someone I first had sex with because they broke into my house and forcibly seduced me is going to be the love of my life, but I’ve paid enough attention in class to know that I’m attached to him.
This is a good thing, I loop back on myself. If he’s gone, then I can move on, and everything is fine.
After a long and frankly, quite boring day, I get home, sling my books on the table, and slip in a puddle of blood on my kitchen floor.
Wait, what?
Looking down, there’s a good-sized small pool of what I am guessing is human blood unless someone broke in and sacrificed an animal.
I have that horrible hot and cold prickly feeling that accompanies every single hair on my body standing upright.
I go to my bedroom. I should run back out the front door, but there’s a sort of locking in that happens when shit gets weird in your house. It’s like I need to see what’s around the corner.
Sam is lying on my bed. He’s bloodied and fast asleep. He’s wearing a white shirt, but it has been ripped to shreds. There are bandages on his chest and torso, but they’re bleeding through. His breathing looks pained and shallow. There’s bruising around his left eye, and his nose looks broken and reset, and someone has punched him in the mouth for sure.
I should call the police. I should call an ambulance.
I reach for my phone.
One of his eyes flickers open. The only one that can, I think.
“Don’t,” he croaks out.
“What the hell happened to you?”
I already know what happened. He tried to prey on the wrong person and he got his shit handed to him.
“I had a disagreement with some gentlemen,” he says. “I need some time to recover. I don’t believe they know about you, so this should be a relatively safe place.”
I should kick him out. I should go to the cops. I should…
I go to the kitchen, get a bowl of warm water, a towel, and some soap, and come back and sit on the side of the bed next to him.
“You bled all over my floor,” I say. “You’re probably bleeding all over my bed, too, you know that?”
“I’ll replace whatever…”
“Stop talking,” I say. “You need your strength to recover from whatever happened. Were you shot? Do you need a doctor? How come you didn’t just go to your house and call one of your evil doctors?”
“If they don’t kill me, your questions will,” he says.
“Do you need a doctor?”
“I’ve called one,” he says. “I got patched up at the time, but…”
“Did you call a cleaner, too? And a bed store?”
That one eye focuses on me with annoyance. “Is this your idea of being helpful, Laura?”
He’s managing to lecture me even in this state. I don’t particularly care for his tone.
“I am being helpful. I’m letting you use my bed as a full body sanitary pad,” I say.
“You’re angry at me,” he says. “You think I abandoned you after Vegas.”
“There was a different woman teaching class today,” I say. “She wasn’t you.”
“A sin for which she will never atone,” he says dryly.
Knock. Knock.
The doctor is here. He’s a tall, lean man with a serious expression. He’s younger than I expect him to be. Mid-twenties, maybe. Barely old enough to be qualified. Probably a med student moonlighting in the underworld to pay off his student loans. The idea sounds far-fetched, but I’m pretty sure that has to be what is happening.
“Dr. Black,” he says as he walks right past me into my house, following the trail of blood to the bedroom, where he opens a black bag and starts poking around Sam.
“A few inches to the left or right,” he mutters.
“And?” Sam asks the question. “They would have killed me?”
“And they would have missed you entirely,” Dr. Black says.
I snort. I like this guy. He’s funny. Even Sam grunts with appreciation.
“It’s a shallow wound and it’s missed anything super important,” the doctor says. “But it’s going to hurt for a while, and you need to stay clear of other murderous activities for a few weeks at least.”