Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 130221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
“Oh, I know you do.”
“Don’t give me that look,” he fires back. “I’m sure she’s taken a bath by now, and you know what’s underneath those clothes.”
Axel breathes out a laugh, and I feel Nicholas shift in his seat.
Hugo leans forward, a gleam in his eyes. “Does it look as good as I think it does?”
Fire flows under my skin, but at the same time, I exhale a little. He hasn’t seen her. He hasn’t touched her.
When I don’t answer, that seems to be answer enough. “Then she’s safe,” he says in a smooth tone. “I’ll keep her for myself, if that’s the case. It’s time I started a family.”
I steel my spine.
“She’d be a great mother,” he continues. “It’s a good life for her. She’ll be taken care of, I promise.”
I rise, done with this conversation. She likes astronomy.
And if I have anything to say about it, she’s done raising kids until she’s damn well ready.
I start to leave, but I hear him behind me.
“Or…” he says, stopping me. “She can be yours and then she’s protected, too. No member of Green Street touches another member’s woman.”
What?
“Think about it.” His tone is soft and seductive. “The tattoo would look great on you.”
I walk away. Jesus.
So, I give her back or I claim her by putting that shit on my neck? I’m not doing either one.
I dive back into the kitchen and exit through the back door. Hitting the alley, I step just inside the rear door of the Chinese restaurant, in case they decide to follow me.
Dishes clank, someone is using a hose to spray them clean in the basin, and I wait just a minute before leaving through the front. Pulling up my hood, I circle back around to High Street and climb the fire escape.
She’s not my woman. That’s not what…
I reach the roof, pulling off my hood, and walk for the door.
We’re friends. Kind of funny how it happened, but I like her. She’s a good person—or wants to be—and I want to know what she can do someday. She deserves more.
But I’m going to college, she’s not. At least not yet. She’ll go her way, and I’ll go mine, and I hope she gets the life she wants, but we’ll lose track of each other. It happens, but it’s unrealistic to think this is more than it is.
We’re rivals who were forced to find common ground. It’ll be a cool story someday. Maybe I’ll run into her again, and we’ll laugh about this.
We’ll laugh, because it all ended up okay. Life worked out for her. She got out.
And I’ll turn out normal, hopefully.
I lean over and pull on the door, thinking about the years ahead.
College. Travel. Work.
A woman and my children.
And it takes a moment before I realize the door on the roof isn’t opening.
Aro
I stare at the old phone, scrolling through all the texts on one of the devices I’d found in Hawke’s desk drawer. There were several outdated phones and only two of them worked. The other had texts just as dark, but this thread feels different. I’ve read through it at least five times.
Do you see her? the sender asks.
The person who once owned the phone I’m now holding replies, I’m looking at her now.
What do you think?
Pretty, they say.
I’m so hungry for her.
I know you are.
I hold the device, navy blue and heavy, with a stubby antenna and no touch screen. There were several others in that drawer, different brands but all equally as old.
I hold it in both hands as I lean against the wall of his surveillance room.
I want her naked, the first says.
I promise, comes the reply.
Who are they and why is one helping the other? And who are they after? Did they bring her here? Hawke had these phones. He’d been hiding them. Why?
He’s also not been forthcoming about the story behind this place.
Sweating in my bed, and able to do nothing but take what I give her, the prick writes as his friend watches her.
She’ll like you.
Yes.
I read it, but I hear it as a whisper instead.
And then she’ll bleed for you.
Yes.
This text conversation is different than the others I read, because it feels like this conversation is happening now, and they’re talking about me.
This Saturday, his friend promises. Carnival Tower.
And the discussion ends. These must be burner phones, because in every one I read, the sender and recipient seem close, but there are barely any exchanges, and they feel like the same people talking from one phone to the other.
Carnival Tower. It sounds familiar.
Ringing pierces the silent room, and I know who it is before I even pull out my phone.
I answer, holding it to my ear as I look up and see him on the screen. He stands on the roof.
“Aro?” he says.
I watch him. He looks around him, nervous.