Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
For the first time this month, I feel like I can breathe.
Like, somehow, it’s all going to be okay.
“Come back to my place with me,” he says, and it almost sounds like a plea.
“I’m all dirty,” I reply. I still have bits of clay on me from working earlier in the day. I’d planned to take a shower but decided to spend time with my mother instead, then came back here when I wasn’t able to sleep.
“Then I’ll clean you up.”
“I can’t,” I whisper as if someone might hear us. As if my mother is waiting around the corner or one of the men in my family is ready to pounce from the shadows. I know no one has access to my cameras because I had Ivy install them, but it doesn’t matter. What we’re doing is wrong. At least, that’s what I keep trying to convince myself.
“You can. Come with me. I’ve waited for as long as I can.”
“Do you want to die? Is that what you want?” I ask incredulously.
Yes, I still plan to kill him. And I glance over at the knife I’d used earlier in the day to open boxes. It’d be so easy for me to reach over and grab it. I can imagine the color of his blood as it bleeds out, but… No, it has to be a gun.
“You know who my family is. They wouldn’t approve of you at all. My mother almost lost her shit when she asked me if there was something happening between us, and that’s saying something because she is the calmest person I know.”
“I’m not afraid of your family.”
“Well, that’s your first mistake.” I go to push him away, but he keeps his stance, barricading me in. I can’t fight him, even if I had the strength to do so. He gets me in ways that defy logic and rationality, like the ebb and flow of creating something beautiful through my sculpting. And I wonder what this thing between us would create. Would it be beautiful? Hideous? One thing I’m certain of is I don’t know how to put an end to it. I know eventually, I’ll be placing a gun to his head. But when? Am I intentionally avoiding it now?
“I’m not afraid of your family, Shortcake,” He reiterates. “Now, tell your driver to leave and get in my car.” I go to speak, but he cuts me off. “That wasn’t a request.”
My skin begins to tingle, my lips inches from his. I’m taking in his breath and cologne, all the promises of what this man can do to me only one answer away.
I swallow hard and nod.
I know I shouldn’t, but I want to.
Right now, I want to live for myself and damn the consequences even though they’re due to catch up with us.
Stealing moments with him like this is what I want. It’s what my body needs. There’s some underlying thing that I’m not entirely sure how to address. It’s something equivalent to hatred that goes hand in hand with the dark part of me he draws out so easily. Even when I try to run away from it, it’s him who makes me confront it.
Braxton smirks as he pushes off the shelf. “That’s my girl.”
Braxton waits inside the building as I approach my driver and tell him he can leave because I’ll be here longer than usual. Though he’s usually too terrified to leave my side half the time after the rumor of what happened to my last driver spread through the staff, he’s also used to me being at the studio for long hours, so the order isn’t surprising to him.
But he’s not my bodyguard, and when I tell him having him here will hinder my work, he seems torn, as if that might be another reason he might get killed, so he leaves. It’s not that my father often kills staff, but they know who they work for, which is exactly why they’re paid so highly.
Once he leaves, Braxton comes out and throws an arm over my shoulders. He kisses my temple and says, “Good girl,” as he leads me to his car.
As much as I want to fight going with him, we’re both so tired. It’s not just obvious from the gauntness of our expressions; I can feel it. I can feel him with an understanding that’s not physical.
I look up at him. He’s still wearing his beanie, and I admire the small curls that aren’t tucked back completely. I wonder if, in a different life, what we might be to one another.
“That’s my girl.” Those words make my heart flutter more than they should, and I wonder if I want to be his girl. Is that what this conflict within me is? Surely not, because that thought is entirely unwarranted. It wouldn’t make any sense since I’m literally readying myself to kill him.