Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 95898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
“Open the goddamn door, now!” he roars as he pounds on the door with a heavy fist. My eyes bolt open wide in alarm. He’s so enraged his voice and actions scare me. I back up a few feet, wondering if he’s going to bust down the door. Has he gone crazy? Why would I want to open the door to a raging lunatic who’s seeing nothing but red?
It sounds as if a herd of cattle are barreling into the bedroom, and then the next thing I hear is Stryker’s voice bellowing out, “What the fuck, man?”
“Get the fuck out, Stryker. This isn’t your battle,” Travis yells back.
Then I hear Quinn jump into the mix with his deep baritone voice. “You need to back off a minute and chill.”
“You don’t tell me what to do…” His voice is cut off as I hear a rustle ensue outside the door. Then Quinn’s voice emits an ominous tone full of such vexation it scares the crap out of me. “I said to back the fuck off, Travis. If you don’t, I’ll throw you in a set of handcuffs ’til you settle your ass down.”
I press the palm of my hand against my pounding heart. Quinn’s threatening tone would have me opening the door if he told me to, because I’d hate to know what he’d do if I didn’t. Thank God he’s on my side right now, providing me with a little distance from Travis.
Some very colorful words are exchanged, but the end result is a tremendously mad Travis slamming the bedroom door behind him, and then I’m left in ear-ringing silence. Well, that was exciting. I slide my body down to the floor, the cold tiles giving me a slight chill. I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes.
It’s times like this I wish I had some music to escape into. I would especially love a set of noise-canceling headphones right now. There is only one band in particular that can always be counted upon to soothe my soul, no matter the mood or circumstance I find myself in. I know Def Leppard doesn’t sound soothing or consoling to many people, especially in this type of adversity, but their music has always been able to reach me, providing an inner clarity like no other.
I close my eyes and imagine the band on stage, with the bright lights shining overhead as the crowd roars for another song. The music starts, and I hum along with the tune. I have every single beat memorized in my head, both forward and backward to my favorite song, “Hysteria”.
I’m imagining I’m the set of drums…no, not the drummer, but the drums themselves. I’m the Tom-Toms, the snare, the bass, and the cymbals all in one as I feel every beat of percussion vibrate through me. Totally immersed now, the calm beat and cadence envelops me, and I can breathe a little easier now. The feeling I get with music has to be equivalent to an alcoholic getting his first drink of the day; it’s indescribable.
Travis’ loud, thunderous voice suddenly erupts through every wall in the house as he yells at the top of his lungs, and then another door slams with a thunderous crash. My eyes pop open with alarm, and the trance I put myself in is gone.
His rage echoes through the bathroom, bouncing off the walls, and I can’t take it. I press my fingers into my ears, trying to drown out the shouting. I begin to hum again while methodically rocking back and forth, trying to calm my frayed nerves.
After a few minutes, I remove my fingers and find all is quiet and calm for the moment. Knowing the bedroom is empty, curiosity gets the better of me. I soundlessly open the bathroom door and hear Travis’ deep voice filtering through the wall of the next room. Carefully, I creep to the other side of the room that’s adjacent to mine and press my ear to the cool drywall to eavesdrop.
“Give her some breathing room, Trav,” Stryker tries to reason. It’s amazing to me how many hats Stryker wears as he seamlessly and effortlessly adapts to each situation he finds himself in. He goes from a hard-ass gun-toter, psychologist, happy-go-lucky surfer dude, to an all-business, hard-edged medic on the front lines.
“She’s in a fuckload of emotional distress right now,” he calmly states, and then suddenly raises his voice, startling me. “Back the fuck off. She just got her memory back, killed a man, watched a couple more drop before her very eyes, and she’s still in your possession—by force, I might add. How the hell is she supposed to digest all that in two days?”
“She should know...”
Stryker interrupts him with a loud scoff. “You’re such a self-centered dick sometimes, Travis. Can’t you push aside your needs for one minute, and put yourself in her shoes?” His voice goes from displeasure to heated hostility. “Did you even stop to think how you’ve not only put her in eminent danger, but all of us too by letting your foolish heart get in the way? You decided what was best for you. You didn’t even consider us. You’re in the fucking slave trade business for God’s sake!” he roars. “And you’re not helping matters by scaring the shit out of her and punching holes in the wall.”