Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
"Yeah, we're going to head home. Someone is coming to meet us there." The engine roars to life and I click my seatbelt into place. "You good?"
"Fine," she murmurs, wrapping her arms around herself. The fear and sadness in her gaze kill me. Before I can say anything to her, she breaks my gaze, glancing down at her lap.
"Fuck," I growl, frustrated as she retreats into herself again. One of these days, she's going to open up to me willingly, let me comfort her. I guess today isn't that day though.
I sigh heavily and turn toward the road.
"They were here for me, weren't they?" she asks a few minutes later, her voice small.
"I don't know."
"You think so."
I hesitate for a long moment, torn between the need to protect her and the responsibility to tell her the truth. "Yeah, angel, I think so," I admit, unable to lie even to protect her. "My captain is going to send someone over here to look at the security footage, see if they can find anything. Did you recognize either vehicle?"
"No. They looked like every other car to me. I don't know much about cars or what any of Nikolai's people drive."
"It may not have been them. As far as we know, they don't know where you are," I murmur, trying to ease her mind.
"Why would anyone else shoot at you and then drive away?"
"I've pissed off a lot of people in my life. It comes with the territory when you deal with the kind of people I deal with. It could have been anyone."
She shakes her head like she's disappointed, her face scrunching up. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the annoyance in her expression is cute as hell. She's still so innocent. After everything she's seen living under the thumb of Tarasova, she's still ingenuous enough to believe crime and criminals operate by the same set of rules cartels like the Tarasovas operate by. I don't shatter her illusions about the state of the world any further.
We subside into silence. I keep my eyes open, checking to ensure no one is following us. Was Tarasova behind this, or am I just overreacting? If it was him, why shoot at us and then drive off? No one tried to grab her. Hell, no one even got out of the vehicles. Were they simply trying to intimidate her? If so, it's working.
Faith retreats a little further into herself, visibly shrinking in the seat beside me as four cruises pass, headed down Ventura toward the movie theater with their lights and sirens going.
"Are you sure you aren't hurt?" I ask her again when we're halfway to the house.
"I'm fine," she mumbles, but we both know that isn't true.
"Octavio?" Faith says, lingering in the doorway of my home office several hours later.
I glance up from the file in front of me to find her dressed for bed in a tank top and lounge pants, her hair in waves down her back. She chews on her bottom lip, looking vulnerable and uncertain. My arms ache with the desire to pull her onto my lap and hold her, but I fight the urge, knowing it won't get me anywhere with her. She's determined to keep me at a distance, and nothing I do seems to make a difference.
I messed up with her, badly, and I don't know how to fix it. The situation today didn't help. She didn't say anything else the entire way home and then went inside as soon as we arrived. By the time I finished up outside, it was dark, and she was in her room with the door closed against me.
Whoever shot at us managed to avoid the security cameras in the parking lot, meaning we have no viable leads. Franklin is checking traffic cameras to see if they may have caught a license plate for either vehicle, but I'm not holding my breath. I have no doubts Tarasova's men did it, but I don't want to scare her more than she already is. I hate lying to her, even by omission, but she's finally stopped looking over her shoulder all the time. The thought of allowing Tarasova to take that away from her isn't appealing to me.
And yet…he took it anyway. Even if I don't tell her, she fucking knows who shot at us today. She isn't stupid, and she's far from naïve.
"What is it, angel?" I ask.
"I…I just wanted to say thank you," she whispers. "For today, I mean."
"De nada, conejita."
She stands there for a moment and then turns to leave, but I don't want her to go.
"Did you have a good time? At the movie, I mean."
She pauses, turning those wide eyes back to me. "I did," she whispers. "The movie was good." A shadow passes through her eyes. "Sad."
"You mean Mufasa being an orphan," I guess. She cried during parts of the movie, but I don't think she wanted me to know it. I ached to dry her tears for her but didn't. Every expression that crosses her face and every thought in her mind fascinates me. I want to know all of them. I want to be the one she turns to when she's happy and when she's sad. Hell, I just want her.