Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 68066 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68066 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
“Why is she washing her son off with wipes?” he questioned.
“He smells,” I told him honestly. “Apparently he had a blowout in the locker room, and Ezra cleaned him up as best as he could—which happened to be with some old socks or something.”
Flint chuckled low, and I’d wished I could see his face.
The shadows were too deep where we were standing, though.
“Why are you in the shadows?” I questioned.
He shrugged, causing the chain-link fence to clink. “People will do stupid stuff when they think nobody is watching,” he said. “I’m just chilling here, making sure that nothing unsavory happens over here where the kids think nobody is watching.”
I scooted closer when the women’s bathroom door kicked open, nearly taking my head off in the process with the doorstop that kept it from hitting the wall and breaking.
“Jesus,” I hissed. “That nearly took out my eye.”
That was about when I realized his hand was around my waist, and I was breathing heavier.
“I’m fairly sure that doorstop is at my forehead level, and I have at least eight inches on you,” he said. “What are you, five foot three at most?”
When I was in heels.
When I wasn’t, I was five foot one.
“Sure,” I shrugged.
His low chuckle led me to believe that he was more than aware that I’d just lied.
A wet tongue licked my hand, and my good mood vanished. It was replaced with a nightmare.
***
I was doing my homework on the living room floor while my parents watched the latest episode of Dateline. Vaguely I recalled the show featuring a set of serial killers with similar motives, and how at first the two were mistaken for the same killer.
I was trying to listen as well as do my geometry homework when a low scrape at the front door had me glancing up.
The moment my eyes hit the newly painted wood door, it exploded.
Shards of wood and blue paint went flying as a puff of smoke filled the room.
Black shapes filed in through the small opening, and I panicked.
My parents were scared to stillness in their recliners, both of them staring openmouthed at the black-clad men that were yelling and screaming for us to put our hands in the air.
I, on the other hand, only reacted.
Acting on instinct, I started to scream and dashed through the living room toward my bedroom—my safe place—the place where nobody but me was ever allowed.
And, before I could even make it past the entrance to the hallway, I was taken down.
Pain exploded through my leg, and soon something sharper and even more painful sank into my arm.
It was only when I was kicking and screaming, struggling and wailing, that it finally occurred to me that a dog was on top of me, snarling and snapping, using me as a chew toy.
Everybody was yelling, but I could only focus on the pain.
It hurt.
Oh God, did it hurt.
Every time I moved or twitched, the dog would clamp his mouth down even harder.
But I couldn’t stop myself from trying to yank away.
My skin was torn, and I could feel the blood leaking all over the place.
My entire body was slick with it, and even though I could hear someone yelling at me to remain still, I couldn’t help the freak out that poured through me.
At fifteen years old, I thought I was a badass.
It was then in that moment that I realized that I was nowhere near as fearless as I thought I was.
I…
***
Something was squeezing me tight, and it was only when Flint’s voice, sharp and worried, barked in my ear that I finally came out of the nightmare.
I was breathing hard, and I couldn’t get my eyes to focus.
I was shaking like a leaf, my ears were ringing, and the only part of my body that felt connected to my brain was where Flint was holding me close.
My head was pounding right along with my heart, and my throat was raw.
“Breathe, honey.”
I gulped in a quick breath, trying to force myself to think more clearly.
It took me six more deep breaths before I finally calmed enough to realize what exactly had just happened.
Panic attack.
I hadn’t had one of those since I was twenty-two and a sophomore in college when a pit bull had run up on me when I was jogging and scared the living crap out of me.
Its owner had caught his escape and called him back, but the damage had been done.
I’d fallen to the ground in a helpless heap, hands covering my head and curling into a ball in a useless attempt to protect my vital organs.
That hadn’t happened this time. Flint obviously had sensed something wrong and had grabbed me before I could go into that protective position.
“I’m okay,” I lied.
A wet tongue licked my hand, and this time I didn’t freak out.