Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
“These people are bad.” He stares down at my collar. “I’d tell you not to do this, but you’ll for sure do it then.”
I can’t help but smile a little. We may have very little in common, but he knows me.
A lump moves down his throat, his eyes still not meeting mine.
“When you’re young,” he says, “you’re feeling everything magnified by a hundred.” He pauses, seeming out of breath. “Your head can feel like a prison. But it’s not.”
He tightens the tie and lifts his gaze to mine.
“Every problem can be solved,” he goes on. “Tomorrow is another day. And if it’s not one thing, it’s another.” His face softens. “You get through it. With family.”
I blink, unsure of how to respond.
He never talks to me like this. I don’t think he talks to anyone much, except Krisjen, but tonight it’s like advice and apology at the same time.
My anger is overwhelming, but so was his once upon a time.
And his despair.
As much as I dread facing him still or imagine that I’ll never measure up, he didn’t abandon us, did he?
He could have. Anyone would’ve understood. Five kids to support is an impossible task, but we made it through.
At least so far.
I tuck in my shirt and fasten my pants and belt.
“This will buy us time,” he states. “But we’ll need leverage eventually. Dirt.”
“I’m on it.” I take long breaths, admittedly scared to be in that room with no windows and no phone. But still, I warn him, “Be careful tonight.”
He snickers, backing away. “I was breaking curfew when you were in kindergarten,” he jokes. “Don’t worry about me.”
“You mean you were fun once?”
His eyes widen. “Fuck you.”
But he smiles, and I flash one back.
He leaves, and I finish up, slipping into my socks and shoes, brushing my teeth, and styling my hair before putting on my jacket.
By ten, I’m pulling my phone off the charger in my classroom, debating whether or not I should leave it. I won’t be able to take it in the Wolfe Room, and I may leave in too big a hurry to get it back.
Silencing it, I slip it into my breast pocket and secure my money clip in the other one.
When I walk outside, a black car sits in front of the school in the empty lot. Wind sweeps through the palm trees, perspiration cooling my pores.
Opening the door, I climb in, sitting opposite Callum. I try not to relax at the sight of the otherwise empty back seats. I thought for sure he’d bring his asshole friends to join in, taunting me.
He probably feels I’m owed a beatdown, in any case.
“I apologize—the driver didn’t see you coming,” Callum says.
No one was going to open my door anyway.
“I know what I am to you.” I sit, my legs taking up more room than his as I rest my arm on the door. “Best not to keep up pretenses, not tonight.”
This isn’t a date, and I’m not being hosted.
I’m his entertainment.
The driver pulls off and Callum grabs a handful of ice out of the tray next to his legs, a compartment coming out of the seat, and dumps the cubes in a glass. He pours Bluecoat.
I gaze out the window. “How does this place work?”
“You’ll see.”
I turn back to him, watching him sip his drink. He’s dressed similarly, in a black suit and black shirt, but he also wears a vest with his tie. His silver watch glints in the streetlights coming through the window, and I wouldn’t even bat an eyelash to learn it cost more than my annual salary.
“Can I leave when I want?” I press.
“Of course.” His tone is light and calm. “Whether you can get away is another question.”
My plan is to let him play with my head but show him that I know far more than he does. If he thinks I have tricks, he’ll want me there—maybe again on another night, too. I want as many opportunities as possible to get whatever is useful to Macon.
Callum undoubtedly has a plan of his own, though.
“Am I expected to participate?” I ask next.
His gaze falters, and he turns away, toward the window. “Not in the first room.”
“The first room?”
It’s called the Wolfe Room. I guess it should’ve occurred to me that it would be more sophisticated.
“When you get into the Den…” He furrows his brow a little. “It’s a little more aggressive.”
He avoids my eyes, looking like a memory is playing in his head.
I study him. “Did you ever not like it?”
He lifts the glass to his lips. “I’ve never been in the Den.”
Then how does he know?
I want to ask him other questions. I want to know how many times he’s been in the Wolfe Room and what he’s done, but then I remember I don’t give a shit.