Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I go into the bathroom, and what I see reflected in the mirror doesn’t surprise me. My bruises and scrapes still ache but the swelling has gone down and they aren’t so purple or angry anymore. I find a new toothbrush in a small travel kit in the bathroom and help myself to it. I savor the feeling of brushing my teeth until my gums bleed.
Remembering that I’m on a time crunch I make my way through a small hallway where there’s one other door partially open. I peek in hoping to find a computer but I’m not that lucky and Smoke’s not that dumb. It’s another small bedroom, or at least I think it is, it’s so filled with black storage containers with yellow lids from top to bottom it’s hard to tell.
What the hell is in them? More clothes? For who? Why?
The main living area is almost as small as the bedroom. The entire house can’t be more than six hundred square feet total. A single loveseat sits against the wall with a brick fireplace lining the wall. It doesn’t look like it’s ever been used but then again, it’s a fireplace in South Florida, why would it ever be used? A little square two-person table is tucked into the corner of the open galley style kitchen. Everything out here is just like it is in the bathroom. Clean, but old. The sofa is a faded brown color and has a tear on the top of one of the cushions, exposing the stuffing. The dining room table has duct tape around one of the legs. The chairs are mismatched as well as the cushions tied to the seats.
On the table, there’s a glass casserole dish steaming with something that looks like biscuits floating on the top. It smells like salt and gravy. My eyes roll back in my head.
My mouth waters, and my stomach growls.
“Eat,” Smoke says, pointing to one of the chairs.
I don’t like taking orders, especially from him, but this is one order I can’t turn down. I don’t care if it’s fucking poison. I’ll go out with a full stomach, and right now a full stomach is all I can think about.
How long has it been since I’ve eaten?
I try to remember, but as Smoke ladles out a heaping scoop of biscuits with sausage and white gravy onto a plate in front of me I realize it’s been at least a day. Maybe two. Smoke drops a spoon next to my plate. “You’re not getting a fucking fork.”
I inwardly smirk. Oddly enough his comment makes me proud. I straighten a little more.
Smoke isn’t underestimating me or what I’m capable of. He knows I’ll use anything to my advantage, and he’s right. Him knowing this will make escaping harder, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.
After breakfast.
Smoke nods to me, and I waste no more time shoveling the food into my mouth. The biscuits are hot and fluffy and the sausage gravy is salty and savory. My tongue rejoices, and when I discover the bottom of the pan is coated in sliced potatoes I practically jump out of my chair with joy.
Smoke’s standing in the kitchen watching me with those dark dangerous eyes.
The hair on my arms stand on end. Dr. Ida’s rules run through my head.
Escape. Befriend. Seduce.
“Did you make this?” I ask, with my mouth ful.
“No,” Smoke answers gruffly.
“Then, who made it?” I’m chewing and swallowing at record speed. “It’s really good.”
“Someone.”
How articulate. I’m reaching for more food from the dish when I feel his eyes on me. I look up.
“Listen, when you…” he starts, but he quickly shuts his mouth and pulls out his phone, tapping something out.
“What?” I ask, curiously.
“Never mind,” he mutters, shutting me down.
Friendship, even a fake one meant to secure survival, is going to be impossible with someone who won’t talk to me, but I’ll keep trying. Stopping means I’ve given up and I’ve learned my lesson. I’m not going to give up. I have more than myself to think about, and I’ll use the thought of them to keep me going.
I down the entire glass of water sitting next to my plate and put down my spoon when my stomach feels like it’s about to burst.
“Thank you for this,” I say, raising my bandaged arm and giving him a small, fake smile. It’s all I can muster. Thanking the man who kidnapped me doesn’t exactly come easy or naturally.
Smoke nods but doesn’t speak.
“Can I ask you why?”
“Why what?” he crosses the kitchen to stand over me at the table.
From this position, his size is even more intimidating. I almost lose my nerve, but swallow hard and find the courage to continue from deep within.
I crane my neck to meet his eyes. “Why did you take care of my cuts and bruises? Why are you feeding me or bothering if I’m to be tortured and killed in seven days anyway?”