Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
"He's fucking family," I say. "Wouldn't making his life a living hell be more entertaining?"
He watches me for a couple of long beats before speaking.
I feel the scrutiny of his gaze, as if he can somehow look right inside of me and see the inner workings of my mind. Despite knowing that's not possible, I shove every thought away.
"Speaking of entertainment," he says, looking down at his computer for a second before turning it around to face me. "We have a shipment coming in, and I'd like your help with it."
"I'd love to help," I say before looking at the screen.
Six sad faces stare back at me, eyes begging for the rescue they hope for but know will never come. One of the girls on the screen can't be older than seven or eight, her eyes swollen from crying, an eerie bruise on her face the shape of a palm print.
Every one of them looks to be underage, but even as disgust eats away at me, I don't bat an eye before looking up at him.
"I sure as fuck hope you don't plan to bring them here," I mutter.
"And why is that? Have a problem with little girls?"
"Do you have any idea how much they fucking cry?" I huff a laugh, an attempt to push down the threat of sickness that wants to bubble up my throat. "Those bitches are noisy. They don't shut up, no matter how much you hurt them. Tears, crying, sobbing. It's fucking constant. Takes months before they learn silence is golden."
Every word out of my mouth is fucking acid on my tongue.
"Crying doesn't bother me," he says with a shrug, leaning back in his chair, hands clasped together on his stomach.
"What about your men? Will it drive them insane?"
"I don't care about that shit either."
"You'll care when they get pissed and hurt one of them. Have you ever tried selling one of those bitches when they're all banged up?"
"Some men like it," he challenges as if he's searching for the button that's going to make me act differently, as if he's trying to prove a point.
What the man doesn't understand is that I'm in my fucking element right now.
"Men like to hurt little girls, not purchase an already broken one," I clarify.
He pulls in a deep breath, annoyance apparent in the way it shudders at the top before he releases it. He turns the computer back around to face him.
"I don't need your opinion on who I've picked. I need your help figuring out a different travel path to get them where I need them to go."
"Where are they now?" I ask, thinking I seriously fucked up when he snaps his eyes up from the screen to me. "Where are they going?"
"So many fucking questions," he says.
"Bobby," I say with my own edge of irritation. "I can't help with the logistics of getting them from one place to another without knowing where they are and where they're going."
His head dips as if he understands my reasoning, but it doesn't make me believe he trusts me any more than he did before I closed the conference room door.
The man has taken me from doing menial work for over three weeks to telling me about little girls he's going to traffic in the blink of an eye. I knew I was fucking cooked the second he turned the computer screen around.
Unless this guy is just completely fucking stupid, I don't think he'd make such a large jump without testing the waters first. Grown women, castoffs like druggies and prostitutes, are easier to justify than children any day.
There isn't a single fucking child on this compound, and I hate that it's just now hitting me. There are older underage teens, but no small children, although it doesn't make abuse of any kind okay, no matter someone's age. For some, it's a little more palatable, and that's why it's more than a little suspicious that he's sharing this info now, the way he is.
"Maybe I was wrong in thinking you were the one to help with this," he says, an edge of disappointment in his voice that I know would just eat some of these bootlickers up from the inside out.
"I can help," I argue. "But I can't make transportation arrangements with no information."
"It sounds like you're digging for information," he snaps.
I tilt my head, pretending to be confused, ready to play this until the very end. If the man wants to dance around some shit, I've got my fucking party shoes on.
"Digging?" I scoff. "You want-"
"I want to know fucking how, not a specific route to take!" he yells, hand smacking down hard enough on the table that the laptop jumps.
"Oh," I say, unfazed by his outburst. I haven't met a drug user yet who can keep a fucking handle on his temper, and Bobby is no fucking exception. "A school bus."