Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“As easy as getting money out of a digital wallet, perhaps?”
Drake’s jaw tightened.
“It’s funny how easy it is to con a conman, don’t you think?” I asked, shooting him a smirk. “You’re all such a cocky bunch. Think no one can ever get one over on you. But all it takes is a bullshit email with a phishing link. And everything you worked so hard for… gone… like that.” I snapped my fingers.
That certainly got a rise out of him.
He pushed off the door and took two threatening steps forward.
“It must be genetic. Dear old dad taught you everything he knew, didn’t he? Including how to get caught.”
And there it was.
The inciting words.
Drake flew at me, a growl moving through him.
I pivoted a second before he could reach me, moving closer to the door.
“He would be so disappointed, don’t you think? Taken down by a woman.”
Drake lunged, his hand grabbing my upper arm so hard a cry escaped me.
I yanked hard and broke free so I could make a dash for the door.
And I made it.
Only to have Drake’s hands shove into my back, making me slam forward into the door.
The inn didn’t have much going for it. But credit where credit was due, the doors were old. Meaning they were solid hardwood.
Pain exploded through my skull even as Drake’s hands slid around my neck, attempting to squeeze my throat.
I ducked my chin as hard as I could as my hand frantically reached for the knob.
It turned.
But the weight of me against it, and Drake pinning me to it, made it impossible to open.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” he snarled, his voice in my ear. “Then I’m going to take back that money.”
Not if I had anything to say about it.
See, there were many reasons I didn’t want to live in a motel. Because of how it looked, of course. But also… safety.
Which meant I’d been more than a little bit paranoid about living here, sleeping here.
After cleaning the place, then organizing what few belongings I brought with me, I went through the small room and systematically set up weapons to use in case someone broke in and tried to hurt me.
There was a bat under my bed. Pepper spray in the toothbrush drawer. A steak knife taped under the desk. And a screwdriver in the reusable shopping bag hanging off the doorknob.
I shoved my hand inside, feeling for the grooves of the hard plastic handle and curling my hand around it with the pointed bit facing backward.
I ignored the way my stomach twisted, yanked my hand out, and slammed the screwdriver backward.
The resistance was surprising. Movies and shows always made it seem so simple to shove just about anything into someone’s flesh. But it wasn’t that easy.
But a roar escaped Drake and the pain had him taking a step backward.
That was all I needed.
I yanked the door open, flew out, slammed it behind me, and ran toward the back door.
My heart was hammering.
But I was so, so close to freedom.
My heels clacked against the uneven pavement in the back lot, but I only got five or six feet out before hands collided with my shoulders, knocking me off balance and sending me falling forward, hands thrown out to brace myself.
I guess I hadn’t stabbed him well enough.
I landed hard, the gravel of the parking lot slicing open my hands and knees with a burning sensation I hadn’t felt since I was a clumsy little kid.
The impact had pain shooting up through my shoulders and hips, but that was the least of my problems as I felt Drake coming over me, legs straddling my body, forcing me downward as his hand slapped over my mouth and nose, instantly cutting off my breath.
My memory flashed back.
To Miami.
To a beach house.
To a man with a giant hand covering my mouth and nose, to the immediate breathlessness, the fuzziness, the unbearable pressure in my chest as I couldn’t draw in fresh oxygen.
I clawed at his hand, writhed, wiggled, tried to elbow backward at him.
My vision started getting static at the edges.
I was going to pass out.
Once I passed out, that was it, I was dead.
I winced ahead of the possible pain, then forced my arms to go lax, for my body to fall forward with no hope for bracing.
Drake’s hand slowed my fall, but he whipped it away at the last second, making my face hit the pavement, but not nearly as hard as I feared.
I was still gulping for air when the sound exploded through the air.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
There was one long second where nothing happened except my ears ringing from the sound.
That was a gunshot.
Three gunshots.
On a whimper, I rolled onto my back, finally able to see everything again.
What I saw first was Drake’s body sprawled not far from me, his leg and neck bent at unnatural angles, his eyes open and blank. Possibly because of the blood blooming from his chest. And, you know, the bullet in the center of his forehead.