Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“I don’t give a fuck if you’re interested or not. In fact, I like it better if you’re not,” he says, making my blood run cold.
I’m a lot of things, and I’ve done a lot of terrible shit in my life—most of which I don’t regret. There’s no point in wishing I didn’t make most of the choices I did or wanting to be someone I’m not. Outside of hurting Moira and my son, I like who I am and what I do, but I sure as shit have never put a hand on a woman who didn’t want it.
Only fucking cowards do that, and a coward isn’t one of the things I am.
“Let go of my arm,” she says. “There’s someone else in the store,” she adds, just as I reach the end of the aisle and see him there, hand around her wrist. He’s young, but still older than her, I think. A white guy, with dark hair and eyes, scruffy face, faded jeans with holes in the knees, and, despite the heat, a beanie on his head.
“Fuck off, old man,” the kid says as I cross my arms, staring at him.
“No. I don’t think I will,” I say.
He turns in my direction, using his other hand to lift his shirt, showing the gun there.
“Well, that only makes this more fun.” I take a step forward, then another.
He lets go. “Don’t fuck with me.” The dumb kid puts a hand on the butt of his gun.
“I think you’ve bitten off more than you can chew,” I say. “But I’m glad, because I needed a little action.” Before he even realizes what’s happening, I’ve pulled my gun out of the holster beneath my arm, aimed, and shot into his shoulder.
He screams and falls backward, the woman behind the counter screaming too.
He’s crying and cursing, in too much pain to even reach for his piece—fucking pussy.
I walk over and stand above him, trying to block out the screaming in the background while I point the gun at his head. “Tell her you’re sorry.”
“Fuck—” His words are cut off by a shot to the other shoulder.
“Tell her. You’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry!” he shouts. “I wasn’t gonna do anything, all right. I was just talking shit!”
“Maybe. But I don’t believe you. And I don’t like you. So I’m going to kill you,” I tell him as though I’m saying something as simple as how are you?
“Hmm. I guess here,” I say, pointing my weapon at his left thigh and shooting. “And here.” Now I shoot his right, his loud, incessant screaming grating on my nerves. “Can’t forget number three.” A shot to the stomach, the pool of blood beneath him growing. “Kill shots are my favorite,” are my last words before I pull the trigger again, the shot going straight through the middle of his forehead, eyes instantly blank.
I shoot the camera, then slip my gun back into the holster beneath my jacket, the woman tucked against the wall as if she’s trying to disappear into it, not making a noise. Shock, I assume.
“Take me to the back where the camera feed is,” I say, but she doesn’t move or make a sound. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I need that recording. I’m sure you understand.”
She nods, then stumbles as she hurries toward a door. It’s old school, with a damn VHS that I can’t believe actually works. I instruct her to take the tape out, which she does.
“Are there cameras outside?” I ask.
“No…no, sir.”
“Perfect. Give me five minutes before you call the cops, will you? I need some time to get away.”
She stares at me wide-eyed but doesn’t reply.
I make it to the door, using my arm to open it instead of touching the handle. “You should have someone here to protect you. Your boss can expect one of my associates to have a word with him so nothing like this happens to you again.”
She stares, nods, then says, “He’s an asshole too.”
“Then you can expect him to treat you better after tonight.” And without another word, I walk away, feeling much better than I had before I’d gone inside, not even missing something sweet.
CHAPTER TWO
Abbott
It’s a clinic day, so there are no surgeries on my schedule.
I start my morning at the hospital doing early-morning rounds and checking on patients.
“Good morning, Doctor Abbott. You’re always the first one here in the morning,” Amelia, the charge nurse, says.
I don’t tell her it’s because I don’t have much of a life outside of my career as a general surgeon. Thirty-eight years old, never married, no kids. My last boyfriend cheated on me for six months before I found out, and he acted like it had been my fault for not noticing, for not giving him the time and attention he deserved. I’m not saying I’m perfect, that I was even a very good boyfriend since I’m married to my job, but Hector wasn’t the only man I’ve seen blame the victim for their cheating. Only, the other person wasn’t someone I dated.