Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
From behind her, the door creaked. Jocelyn whipped around and hurried over. Probably it was Mr. Sawyer, and he needed to be let in. Usually, she left the door unlocked, but maybe she forgot to this time. Maybe—
She swung the door open, but no one stood there. She stuck her head out, looked left and right, but there was only humid air and a cracked parking lot. Not even another car besides the guy’s who worked the front desk. Odd. She could’ve sworn someone had opened the door, or at least rustled it.
She blew out a breath, shut the door so she wouldn’t be seen, and went back inside to wait. Finally, twenty minutes later, the man she’d been waiting for burst through the door.
“Running late,” Mr. Sawyer muttered, though notably, there was no apology. “On your knees.” He pointed to the spot where he always had her kneel, and she rushed to obey. “Don’t have much time tonight. Have to get home to . . .” The rest of his words were a mumble she couldn’t quite make out, but she knew better than to speak when she had not been asked a direct question.
Jocelyn knelt there for some time before he came over, running his fingers over the back of her neck, twisting them through her hair. The rest of the evening went as it always did—he gave her commands, and she obeyed. They undressed. They had sex with her up on all fours, facing the wall and not him. But today it was faster than usual. Mr. Sawyer was brusque, ordering her around.
“Hurry up,” he said when they finished. “Get dressed.”
Jocelyn tried to, but one of her stockings snagged, making it impossible to pull up. She reached to fix it, but before she could, he was right there. Shoving her.
“I said hurry up.”
But Mr. Sawyer’s tone only made Jocelyn more nervous. One second she was standing on one foot, fixing her clothes, and the next she was on the ground, blinking.
“Shit,” he said.
“What happened?” She reached for her head. The spot where her hair met her forehead ached and felt hot and wet and—
“You hit your head. Why are you so clumsy? Here, let me look.” Mr. Sawyer crouched down, frowning in the dim motel light as he examined her.
Jocelyn was confused. She didn’t remember hitting her head, didn’t remember what happened. Not exactly anyway. But when she looked up and around, she knew she’d hit the corner of the nightstand. She’d fallen, and on the way down, bashed her head on it. When she pulled her fingers away, they were covered in blood.
“You need stitches.”
Jocelyn’s mouth gaped open. That was a problem, wasn’t it? She couldn’t afford a visit to the doctor, much less stitches. Neither could her mother. And besides, if she went, they’d ask what happened. She couldn’t tell them. Yet she also couldn’t imagine lying to a doctor.
“Let’s go,” Mr. Sawyer said. “There’s a clinic in the next town over. No one will recognize you.” It was as if he could hear her concerns.
He helped her pull on the rest of her clothes, then gathered his own belongings, shoving his keys and wallet back into his pocket. Jocelyn watched him, dazed, processing. She was about to say something—she already couldn’t recall what—when out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of motion in the window. A face, eyes peering through—
Grabbing the dresser to steady herself, she took two steps and opened the gaping curtains wider. But there was no one. Again.
“What?” Mr. Sawyer asked.
“I thought I saw someone.”
“You hit your head. You probably have a concussion and are seeing things.”
Jocelyn nodded without replying. She always agreed with him. That’s what he expected of her, how he taught her discipline—but she was sure someone had been looking in.
Out in the parking lot, Jocelyn walked toward her mother’s car.
“You can’t drive right now,” Mr. Sawyer barked. “Get in my car. In the back. Lie down so no one sees you.”
But she couldn’t help wonder if someone already had seen them.
The clinic was quiet, clean. Much nicer than the last time she’d gone to the doctor her state-funded insurance covered. The nurse did all the normal doctor’s office things—checked her pulse and her blood pressure, took her temperature, handed her a specimen cup to give a urine sample.
“You’re here alone?” the nurse asked, taking notes on a clipboard.
“My . . .” She almost called him her boyfriend. But he wasn’t that. He was more than that, in a way. “My dad dropped me off,” she managed. “He had to get to work.” Jocelyn felt proud of the quick lie. It worked, too, just in case someone had seen Mr. Sawyer leaving her at the curb.
“I see.” The nurse peered at her once more, then nodded. “Okay, the doctor will be in shortly.”