Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“You think I want you because you’re experienced?” I say, keeping my tone gentle. “I want you because you’re real. That’s all I need.”
She bites her lip, then signs her name at the bottom of the page.
I slide the contract into my folder and hand her a pen. “Welcome to the job.”
She tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
I let her be. I get dressed, go outside, chop some wood to add to our already humongous pile. When I come back in, Kat’s on the couch, curled in the robe, reading a paperback she found in the guest room. She’s pretending to be okay, but her hands keep drifting to her phone.
“Hey,” she says, “can I call my friend? Just to check in?”
I disappear into my office, and then hand her the sat phone, already queued up for an outgoing call. “Go for it. No one’s monitoring you.”
She dials, and I give her space, but I linger in the doorway, close enough to hear the tremble in her voice as she leaves a message for someone named Simone. She keeps it short, leaves out all the details, but ends it with “I’m okay, I swear,” and hangs up with a small, brittle sigh.
I want to tell her it gets easier, but it doesn’t. Not for her, anyway.
The young girl looks up at me, big blue eyes shining with something halfway between fear and want.
“When do we start?” she asks.
I smile, flashing even white teeth.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “After breakfast.”
She nods, sets the phone aside, and goes back to her book.
I let her rest, let her pretend she’s still in control, because I know the truth. There’s nothing more intoxicating than surrender, when you choose it for yourself.
I sit at my desk, open a fresh file, and start to write the first scene.
I already know how it ends.
After a delicious dinner of roast beef prepared by Kat, we retreat to our respective corners. The cabin is all creaks and hush, the fire just a dull red ache in the hearth. Most people don’t know that the woods get louder at night—not from the wind, but from the way it seeps into your blood and tells you you’re not alone, not ever. There’s a full moon, so bright it cuts right through the big windows, painting the living room in patches of silver.
I’m in the office, the one spot in the house where I pretend to work, but really I’m just listening to the sounds she makes outside. Kat is in the main room, curled up in my favorite reading chair, the satellite phone cradled to her ear. She keeps her voice low, but she’s not as quiet as she thinks.
“Sim, it’s just administrative stuff, honestly. I’m totally fine.”
A pause, then: “No, there’s nothing sketchy. It’s actually kind of nice. Like a paid retreat.”
She’s lying, but she’s good at it. I wonder if she’s always been this way, or if the last few days have sharpened her.
She hunches down further in the chair, tugs the blanket up around her shoulders, and twists a strand of hair around her finger absentmindedly.
“I promise, if he even looks at me sideways I’ll run. I swear. And there’s a phone, see? I’m calling you on it, right now.”
A long silence, just the faint snap of the fire and the sound of her friend talking on the other end.
“No, I don’t have service, but I can use this line any time. I’ll check in regularly. Scout’s honor. Okay, bye girlfriend. Don’t worry, I’m okay! Love you, talk soon.”
Kat hangs up, stares at the fire for a minute, then drops her head back and just sits there, letting her guard down for the first time all day. She thinks I can’t see her, but there’s a crack in the door, and I can glimpse the young woman. She’s almost glowing in the moonlight, her face turned up, eyes closed, curves completely still.
There’s a fragility to the way she breathes, like she’s bracing for something. Or maybe hoping for it.
She gets up, pads over to the kitchen, grabs a cookie from the tin, and goes to the stairs. I watch her go, the slow sway of her hips under the robe, the way she hesitates at the landing—like she wants to double back, but can’t remember why.
The whole house settles into a hush after she disappears. I type a single sentence, then stare at the blinking cursor, my brain spinning with what I want to do to her, how I want to write her into the book, into my bones.
An hour later, I check the hallway. It’s dark, but there’s a strip of light under her door. I knock, softly.
“You awake?”
No answer.
I lean in, just to listen.
She’s not asleep. I can hear the way she turns in the bed, restless, as if every cell in her body is rioting with anticipation. I know the feeling.