Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 48943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 245(@200wpm)___ 196(@250wpm)___ 163(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 245(@200wpm)___ 196(@250wpm)___ 163(@300wpm)
His knuckles turn white as his hands clutch the arms of his chair.
“Did he fuck you?”
I hate you.
“No,” I spit out. “He doesn’t want me anymore, Milo. You knew that when you sent me over there.” I scoff, the memory of what just went down forever burned into my brain, ready to strike out.
Kicking back his chair to stand, the atmosphere thickens, suffocating me with its invisible smog. My heart kicks in my chest, triggering small intakes of breath. Things are going to turn dark.
“What the fuck did you do to make him not want you anymore?” Grabbing a handful of my hair, he drags me to my feet so forcefully, the chair I was sitting on topples over.
His grip burns my scalp, but it’s nothing compared to the shit I’ve tolerated from Mr. Right in the past. I remain silent, letting him have his anger. The sooner he’s done, the sooner I can go home and hide in my room.
I’m shoved toward his desk, my body colliding with the objects scattered on the surface. Something sharp slices into my palm, making me wince.
“You couldn’t keep him happy a little fucking longer?” he mocks, punching his fist into the wood surface. If he feels pain, he doesn’t show it.
Composing myself, I pull back my shoulders, ignoring the blood dripping from my palm to the gray carpet beneath my feet. “My body doesn’t appease him anymore,” I grind out, swallowing a deep breath.
We stare each other down, menace and madness radiating from him in waves, his pupils shot from the drugs he keeps shoving up his fucking nose.
I shudder when his eyes drop down my body, appraising its worth.
He lunges forward, forcing me to take a step back. His fingers curl around my throat and he throws me against the back wall of his office, my head ricocheting off the plaster. “You fucking did something,” he threatens.
My palms hold his forearm, trying to crack at his strength as he keeps me pinned, crushing my windpipe. “Milo,” I choke out, a vibrating pulse throbbing through my skull.
“You must have done something,” he roars again, releasing my throat. Only to pull a knife from the sheath hanging on his belt.
“Milo…” I plead, my voice quavering. He’s never pulled a weapon on me before, and it’s terrifying knowing what he’s capable of.
The cold blade rests under my chin, tipping my head back. Tears bleed down my cheeks. “Take the dress off,” he grumbles.
No.
“Milo…” I sob.
“Stop saying my fucking name and do as you’re told,” he thunders, crowding in around me, pounding his fist against the wall beside my head. Plaster crumbles from the hole he made, dusting my shoulder in white powder. Curling his lip, he growls, “I won’t tell you again.” His spittle sprays my face as he presses the blade in further. I wince, desperate to get away, but I have no escape.
Swallowing the stone lodged in my throat, I take a breath before pushing the straps from my shoulders. The fabric slips down my body, catching on my hips.
“All the way, Willa.”
My fingertips travel the path of the material, aiding it over my curves until it pools at my feet. I can’t see through the tears cascading like waterfalls from my eyes.
His gaze assesses me, and my blood turns to tar, stodging in my veins. I’m dying. A black star in the night sky, the light already gone. I’m a shell.
The voice inside my head screams with broken lungs, “Wake the hell up, Milo. Look what you’ve become.” I need him to come to his senses. My body recoils with nowhere to go when his palm touches my chest and trails down my body, brushing my nipple, torso, hip, thigh.
This isn’t real.
He’s a demon trying to creep inside my skin. “Milo,” I choke on his name.
“You did do something,” he croaks, pained.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
“You turned into a woman.” He chuckles, shaking his head. Removing the knife from my chin, he places both hands on the wall, caging me in. Leaning down and resting his forehead against my chest, he lets out a long sigh.
“Damn. I’m so fucked up, Wil.” His voice is broken, almost childlike.
Every molecule of my being wants to flee, but without me, I’m not sure he would survive. I’m terrified he would rather kill me than ever let me run. My arms tremble as they rise to encase him. “It’s okay,” I assure him. “We’ll get through whatever it is together.”
Five
Gabe
Twenty-five years old
Stale beer and shit—that’s all I fucking smell in this hovel these street rats call a bar. Milo Hendrix is a wanna be gangsta who likes to think he’s some kind of big dog. He’s just a shitstain who lucked his way up the chain farther than he should have, and now he owes some money to people you don’t want to be due money to. Little fucker is going to learn playing gangsta and being one is miles apart. He’s in the big leagues now, and there’s no way he has what it takes to pull it off.