Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78024 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78024 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“You spoiled little bitch,” she hisses. “You have no idea what I’ve done for you over the years. You would be nothing without me, and what I’m seeing now is that I’ve been far too lenient. Success has gone to your head and you’ve forgotten what we’re working towards.”
The maître d’ approaches us cautiously. “Sir, madams, I hate to interrupt, but—”
“Maybe I don’t give a fuck about Hollywood. Did that ever occur to you?”
She gasps, actually shocked silent. I don’t think I’ve ever sworn at my mother before.
My hand shakes as I put my napkin on the table and stand. “I’m sorry. I’m going to go… powder my nose.” I stride towards the restrooms with my back straight and my head held high, knowing that every eye in the restaurant is on me. Fine. Let them. The guys are rubbing off on me more than I’ve realized.
That doesn’t mean I’m not on the brink of angry tears. My nose is burning and my chest is tight, but there’s no way I’m going to let Mom and Romero see my cry.
The bathrooms are at the end of a long hallway that goes past several rooms that can be rented out for private events. I can only imagine how much it would cost.
It’s a single room, so at least I can lock the door without worrying about anyone coming in. I run the tap, gently pressing a paper towel soaked in cold water against my neck. I don’t want to ruin my makeup, but the cold helps give me something else to focus on and cool down the flush. Then I place my hands on either side of the sink and just look at myself, feeling deflated. All that courage I showed at the table has evaporated, and I’m not sure where I’m going to find it again.
So everything didn’t go perfectly. I knew that was probably going to happen, but I took the first step. She can go cry to Romero and try to impress him instead for all I care. Maybe he’ll keep her living in the lifestyle that she’s looking for.
I want to go out, find Colt and tell him to drive me home.
A last check in the mirror, a drawn breath, and then I open the door. No one around. Good. I was worried Mom might be out there waiting to ambush me. I’ve just passed the door to one of the private rooms when a lock clicks behind me. I haven’t even turned to look before one hand slaps over my mouth, and another goes around my waist, pulling me back into the dark.
I struggle as hard as I can, but whoever it is, is too strong. He kicks the door shut.
“Quiet, Q! I’m not gonna hurt you.”
I freeze. The fear must be messing with my head.
Because that voice belongs to a dead man.
27
Chapter 27 - Quinn
“Breathe, Q. I’m not going to hurt you. Do you recognize my voice?”
I can’t stop shivering, and it feels like my lungs won’t fill up. There’s a wheezing noise, and I think it might be me. My legs give out, and the man holding me helps me go down gently instead of collapsing in a heap.
“I’ve got you. Do you know who I am?”
It’s low and in my ear, but there is no way I wouldn’t. I nod with as much freedom of movement as he allows me.
“If I let you go, will you stay quiet?”
I nod again. After a moment, I’m free to move.
I close my eyes and whimper. Where’s Colt?
“Hey, I don’t want to rush you, Q, but we don’t have time to sit around and say all the things that need saying.”
This is a dream. Maybe I have to look at him in order to make myself wake up. But I’m afraid. I’m afraid I’ll look up and see nothing but blood. I open my eyes and see boots next to my legs. I follow them upwards, until I’m looking at a ghost.
“Surprise.” He smiles gently. “How are you holding up?”
“Axel.” It comes out as a whisper.
He’s tall. Was he this tall before he died, or did death give him a growth spurt? And scars. He still has the mark next to his eye from when he and Heath went swimming and smacked his head on something underwater. But now it has friends. A long slash near his jaw, and a circular burn mark on his throat.
What do I even say? So I don’t.
Instead I throw myself at him, surging to my feet and throwing punches as hard as I can, pounding his chest like it’s a drum. He doesn’t do a thing to stop me. Just lets me keep hitting him and hitting him.
“You’re dead!” My voice cracks as I break my promise to stay quiet. “Do you have any idea how hard it was when you left? Do you know what I went through? Did you watch me use the money on your funeral? Did you see when it ran out and we got evicted? Did you know when I got too big for her to keep hitting, so she started pinching? Did you know what it was like to sleep in the car with one ear open because she took sleeping pills and sometimes people would try the doors?” Every horrible thing I can think of comes pouring out, until all that’s left is to howl, “Why aren’t you dead?”