Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
“Time to get up and face the day, Cadence.” I lift the sheets and look down at my body, inventorying my clothes. I’m still in my dress, though it’s rucked up so high that the hem is up to my lower stomach, panties on full display, and there’s no way I’ll step out of this bed without fixing that, no matter the pain in my head and ankle. That’s when I notice, as I attempt to shimmy the dress down without making a huge fuss with all the aches, pains, and more than from likely bruising.
I toss the sheets back and slowly sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “Jesus, this is a huge bed.” My feet don’t even touch the ground. My ankle is swollen, blue in color and double the size it normally is, and I know it’s going to suck to walk on. That’s okay, though, because every single moment of embarrassment, of Santiago’s anger, and the feeling of helplessness will not keep me in what I’m assuming is his house. I have to salvage this in some way, and not for the money. Screw that. I’ll go work at McDonald’s if necessary to succeed in my dream.
I stand, gingerly, favoring my left foot. Driving is going to be impossible until the swelling goes down. Wearing my heels is completely out of the question, which isn’t too much of a big deal seeing as how I’ll be hanging up my job with Dates for Hire. Been there, done that, currently dealing with the aftermath. Thankfully, there’s an open door revealing a bathroom, and that’s good, too, since my bladder is telling me it’s time to take care of business. I hobble along, keeping my moaning and groaning to a minimum, scared to wake the bear, so to speak. I’ll have to do that, but I’d at least like to know what my current state is, maybe empty my bladder, wash my hands and face before I face the consequences of my actions. Ten thousand dollars for a date should have been a red flag. Stupid me for thinking making a quick buck wouldn’t have any repercussions. I finally make it to the bathroom and flip the light switch. A scream leaves my throat, hand slapping over my mouth, which jars my head, hurting it further. “Maybe I did fight Mike Tyson last night.” I scoot closer until my pelvis hits the vanity, fingers pressing beneath my eye, which is black, going around to the top, with my arm lifted up. That’s when I see the bruises along the outside, too. Add that in to my ankle, and I’m more bruised than not. “Forget Mike Tyson. You’ve been run over by a Mack Truck, Cadence.” No use to keep pressing, hurting myself further, or stewing over the fact that I look like the mess I obviously am. I wobble again until I take care the rest of my business, following it up with washing my hands and using the soap on the counter to wash my face. I don’t see any toothpaste, so this is as good as it’s going to get. I just wish I were wearing something else and could walk better, or have a coat of armor to take on Santiago Martinez, though I’m not sure even that would help.
TWELVE
Santiago
The three hours I worked out in my home gym, heavy rock music blaring through the speakers of the room I had kitted out. The double insulation between the walls as well as the padding hanging on the ones that aren’t obscured by a mirror. It helped keep the noise to a minimum, allowing the woman who is set up in my spare room to sleep. True to his word, Doctor Hodges met me at my place. I’d barely gotten Cadence settled, my hands pulling down the dress so as not to reveal more skin to the doctor than necessary. Even if I should have done it for myself, touching her, even minutely, was not easy. I tried to keep it to a bare minimum since she was half-asleep, an unwilling partner to say the least, and I’d never do something that would make her feel uncomfortable.
It did nothing to keep my cock from staying hard for the entirety of the time Doctor Hodges assessed her. He informed me that she sustained a mild concussion. Rest was the most he could do for her unless nausea, vomiting, or memory loss presented itself. He left shortly after delivering the news, and with nothing else to go on, I became someone I’ve never known myself to be, which included sitting in the chair the interior designer set up when she had her way in not only the office but also my penthouse. I stayed there all night, in her room, her hair spread against the pillow, her soft and subtle scent permeating the air. It kept me on high alert. Not because I was worried she’d end up hurt worse than she already was; it was for another reason altogether, one I’m not sure I’ve got the energy to even think about at this point. One thing is for sure, though: I won’t ever let the interior designer touch my office space ever again. My home is fine the way it is. The office, I didn’t give much of a say as long as it was streamlined, didn’t look out of date, but that doesn’t mean the rug Cadence tripped on won’t be thrown out the second I know without a doubt she’s okay.