Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 75107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
“What are you doing?” I asked when he ducked down to gather up my skirt, then started to lift it.
“Getting the skirt out of your way. You gotta go up.”
There was a hint of desperation in his voice. And for someone who was always so laid-back, the sound had me taking the edge of my skirt and shoving it between my thighs, then keeping them clenched as I climbed up the six small steps.
“Push the cover up,” Venezio demanded.
I did just that.
I expected to exit into an attic or unfinished room.
But I was on the roof.
The air was cool enough to nip at me as Venezio’s jacket slipped off my shoulders and fell downward.
“Just keep going,” he said.
There was a pause, then I heard the steps below me creak and shift as Venezio followed me up.
I had no choice but to move onto all fours on the dirty rooftop for a moment before pushing up to my feet.
By the time I did, Venezio was there with me, offering me his jacket, but this time holding it open so I could slip my arms in.
Only after that did he reach down to grab the steps, pulling them back up, and putting the cover back down on them.
His gaze scanned the rooftops. Looking for what, I had no idea.
“How is he here?” I asked, my voice a shaky whisper. “He wasn’t on the train. How did he know where we were?”
And why the hell would he be following us?
“Your clutch,” he said.
“My clutch?”
He reached toward me, his hand going to the interior pocket of the jacket I was wearing and pulling out my tiny clutch that I didn’t remember him having.
“You left it on the table,” he explained.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he pulled it open and started to sift around.
“Mother fucker.”
I could barely see what was in his hand before he was moving toward the side of the building, hauling back, and sending it sailing it off into the darkness.
“What—” I started.
“Tracker,” he said, grabbing my hand. “We have to move. Right now.”
With that, he was once again pulling me along with him. We moved across the rooftop, then down the rickety old fire escape.
“Venezio!” I yelped as I dropped down first.
And a low, angry growl met me.
“Don’t move,” he called, rushing down behind me.
“Bitch, get the fuck out of here,” a voice said as I backed up against the wall while the dog dropped down slightly and snarled harder.
“Get your fucking dog,” Venezio snarled as he dropped down and moved to step in front of me.
“Who the fuck—”
“I said get your fucking dog,” Venezio snapped, his tone so cold that a shiver racked my system.
I didn’t know what had the man jumping to do what he was told. Until I looked at Venezio and saw his arm extended.
And in his hand?
That was a gun.
He had a gun?
How did he have a gun?
Where had he hid a gun?
As soon as the man had the dog by the collar, Venezio was reaching back, grabbing my wrist, and pulling me with him toward the entrance to the other building.
“You have a gun,” I said dumbly, as we moved into the warm building, the change in temperature making my skin burn.
“I do,” he said, lowering it down by his side but not putting it away.
“Why do you have a gun?”
He stayed silent on that as he walked through the building, then led us to the front door.
“Babe, listen, we are going to need to run again.”
“Why can’t we stay here and call the police?”
“Just trust me here.”
I had no reason to trust him. I clearly didn’t know him well enough if he was someone who carried a gun with him all the time and knew to look for things like trackers in my purse.
But there was no time to think on that as he tucked the gun away, threw open the door, and ran out onto the street, still holding onto my wrist.
I had no choice but to follow unless I wanted to be dragged.
Each step felt like a hot poker to the blisters on my soles.
Down one street.
Up the cross.
Down the next block.
Another.
“Please,” I begged, tears pricking my eyes. “I need to stop.”
My chest hurt, each breath feeling like drawing in icicles directly into my lungs. And my feet. God, my feet.
“Babe, we have to keep going,” Venezio said, slowing his pace, but still pulling me along.
“Why?” I panted. “Why? Why can’t we go to the police?”
“Look, babe, I—fuck.”
The tone in his voice, the look on his face, they had me running without another question, knowing how close the first bullet had come to hitting him, how near the second one had been to me.
My body was attuned to Venezio’s, sensing the shift in his muscles before he turned toward a cross street or down an alley between buildings, allowing me to be prepared and move in unison with him.