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)
"Man, I hope so. I need to shoot some shit soon," I reply, rolling my eyes.
I expected it, but I feel fucking violated knowing they came in here and put a listening device in.
I watch as his eyes drift up, focusing on the spot in the ceiling where the laptop is hidden. Thankfully, he knows more about how these people operate, and he called this one. I can't imagine what would've happened while we were still at the compound had they found the computer. I know it's clean. Zayne wouldn't leave anything they could discover other than the laptop itself, but the thing is expensive, and it would've been hard to explain.
"Looks good," he says, dropping his eyes back to mine, a way of reassuring me that he doesn't think the laptop has been discovered.
"Better than that last piece of shit you bought," I say, playing along.
"This is American-made," he assures me, holding the scope up. "None of that foreign shit."
Knowing we're being listened to keeps him in character, and I know all the derogatory stuff he says is for them, not a real reflection of how he truly feels.
"Isn't that why you broke up with that last bitch of yours?"
The words feel bitter on my tongue. Even pretending to hate women makes my skin crawl.
"Yeah," he answers, tossing the scope back in the box. "Spending hard-earned money making other countries great. Stupid bitch."
I huff an agreement, my eyes once again drifting to the ceiling. Our communication with Cerberus has officially been severed, and knowing we're mostly out here alone sets a sense of unease running through my veins.
"I'm gonna get a shower and some fucking sleep before work tonight," I mutter and walk toward my bedroom door to grab a change of clothes.
I'm not a stranger to late nights and early mornings, but there's just something about this job that's draining my energy much faster than others have.
Zayne is no longer in the living room when I leave my room. Although my shower is long and as hot as my skin can handle, I still feel disgusting when I step out and towel off.
Doubt begins to swim inside of me by the time I get back to my room. The outcome of our work is the main goal. I'm well aware of that, but maybe this specific type of work, the pretending and the infiltration, isn't something I'm cut out to do. I wasn't given a choice between Tennessee and one of the other chapters. Maybe going in and just raining fire on bad guys instead of having to go too in-depth, and personally witnessing what the cartels and sex traffickers are doing, all the while feeling helpless when I can't immediately react, would've been a better fit for me.
I'm in it now, and I know there's no backing out, but the shit we're going to have to do isn't something I want to ever get comfortable doing. I wouldn't even say that Zayne is comfortable, but he sure makes it look easier than it feels to me.
I glance at my bed, realizing I've once again started pacing the fucking few feet I have to maneuver in this room.
My body aches with exhaustion, and I know how dangerous that could be later on, depending on the expectations of the job we're going to get involved in.
I pause at the end of the bed, running my hands over my head, eyes drifting closed. I just need a fucking reset, something else to focus on.
As if the devil himself were inside my head, my thoughts drift back to Zayne and the kiss we shared, the way water droplets glistened on his skin earlier.
Those are all tangible memories, things that happened, experiences I can reflect on.
I growl in frustration when my sleep-deprived mind takes this unguarded opportunity not only to live in the memories but also to mutate those flashbacks, expanding on them in ways I have very rarely let happen before.
I'm simmering, hands noticeably trembling with agitation.
The old me, the one who wanted to point fingers and assign blame, would be pissed that Zayne is back in my life. That man would believe Zayne was completely at fault, but I've grown emotionally since we were teens.
I'm angry with myself.
Not because I'm having the thoughts at all, but because they seem uncontrollable, like there's this draw tugging at every cell in my body, urging me to leave this room and wander down the short hallway.
Not having dominion over my thoughts and urges at this point in my life seems almost criminal. Wanting something is one thing, but having to fight to keep from doing something seems more like an addiction, and that isn't something I've wanted in my life ever.
I tilt my head, the echo of my neck cracking ringing out through the room. Rivet, the psychologist who works for Cerberus in New Mexico, would have a fucking field day if she were in my head right now.