Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“The water fountain is right there.” I point to one that’s only about fifty feet away from us.
“Don’t run, Doc. You won’t get far.”
He lets me go, the lingering feeling of his warm palm still ringing my wrist.
That’s…weird, right? It’s all I can think as I walk to the water fountain. That I can still feel where he touched me…and that I don’t even try to run.
CHAPTER SIX
Rian
I have no idea what in the hell I’m doing.
Everything I’ve done since the moment I first saw the doc has been one mistake after another. Mistakes aren’t me. I run a clean operation—as clean as I can, at least. I don’t screw up, I don’t go off plan, and I definitely don’t kidnap the son of the fucking governor because he made my neck tingle.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” the doc asks.
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” We’re driving again, heading to a house in New Hampshire, one that I absolutely shouldn’t have chosen for us to go to, but then, nothing I’ve done in the last twenty-four hours makes any sense.
“First, because you’ve been shot. Secondly, you made a noise.”
“Nothing.” I turn away, giving my attention back to the road. He’s not what I expected, though I don’t know what I expected or why. Sure, he’s a doctor, but I also shot someone in front of him, stalked him, and kidnapped him. Worrying about me should be the last thing on his mind, but he’d taken care of me back at the rest station, and he’s clearly concerned about me now.
“Where are we going?” he asks.
“To a safe place.”
“Oh, well, that tells me a lot.”
I shake my head. He’s got fire to him. That much is true.
“What are you going to do with me?” he asks next.
There’s only one thing I can do with him, really. I signed his death into law the second I shot someone in front of him and kidnapped him.
“I won’t go easily,” he says, not needing me to answer.
“I would expect nothing less, but if you don’t stop talking, I’m going to kill you sooner rather than later.” My head is fucking killing me. It’s more annoying than the throbbing pain in my shoulder.
“What’s your name?”
“If I tell you, will you stop talking?” I rub my temples, gun resting on my lap. I see his gaze dart toward it before meeting the road again.
“Don’t even think about it, Doc.”
“Abbott,” he reminds me.
“Rian,” I say, hoping that will shut him up. It’s not like it will hurt for him to know my name. He has to die regardless. “Now, shut up.”
“Fuck you,” he counters, and damned if I don’t almost smile.
The doc leans forward, hitting the button on the radio just a second before a melody of classical music played by a symphony of instruments fills the space around us, making my whole body stiffen.
There’s a string run, the music getting louder and faster with each note, building the tension higher and making my heartbeat escalate right along with it.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask, but I know. How could I not when it’s one of my favorites. I just don’t expect him to be listening to it.
“They’re called orchestras. Maybe you’ve heard of them, but this specifically is Mozart’s Symphony No. 40.”
It feels like the air is pulled out of my lungs, giving me a breathless feeling. That’s exactly how I would describe the music, but that’s not directly what it’s from or why I’m feeling it.
I never expected to fall in love with classical music. Moira played piano and taught Cillian, but something about the music called to me, hit me on a deeper level, and for over twenty years, it’s been what I’ve listened to to help get me out of my head, to be transported somewhere else because of the full range of emotions an orchestra of music can make you feel. “Why are you listening to it?” I snap, as if the answer to that question isn’t obvious.
“Because I like it.”
“Turn it off.”
“No.”
Why does it matter so much that he clearly likes it too? That this is a thing, my thing, that Abbott happens to enjoy as well? “Turn it. The fuck. Off.” I stress each word, making sure he can’t miss the warning in my tone. With a sigh, Abbott leans forward and does as I say.
The silence left behind feels loud enough to swallow me whole, but it’s better than the alternative, better than having this man who is making me do things I shouldn’t do, share something I love with me.
He quietly drives, following my directions for an hour and a half into rural New Hampshire, until eventually, he’s pulling down a long, gravel driveway, tucked into an army of trees, stopping at the only house around for miles.
It looks smaller than I remember—one story, two bedrooms. It’s white, but looks dirty and worn. The porch wraps around to the back and could use some TLC. There’s a firepit behind the house—small, brick—where I once roasted marshmallows because Moira loved making s’mores. I shake those thoughts from my head. I don’t have space for them right now. I’ve gotten myself into a really fucked-up situation that has the ability to bring us all down.