Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Get in.” He lifts the hem of his dirty shirt and wipes the sweat from his brow. “You’re drooling again.”
My gaze snaps from his abs to his eyes. “You’re being an arse again.” I grin and he does too. I’ve never seen so many of his teeth at once. Theodore Reed is truly a beautiful man.
Stop.
Stare.
Give thanks.
Let go …
*
“What did you steal?” Theo breaks the silence as we cross the bridge to Tybee Island.
“I didn’t steal anything. You bought the windmill.”
He shakes his head. “In London.”
“Oh. This and that. Nothing too exciting. Mostly money.”
“So you’re rich?”
I chuckle. “No. I didn’t steal it for myself. Well, I kept a small percent to pay rent and food, but it was more of a recovery fee. A fair number of my clients were poor and unemployed. So, for example, when corporations downsized to make sure the rich bastards at the top didn’t have to take pay cuts or even worse, didn’t have to forego their raises, I made sure the unemployed were properly compensated until they found new employment.”
“Robin Hood.”
“Sometimes.” I smile.
“And other times?”
“And other times I was a weapon to the highest bidder. I got paid to expose certain people, provide information to blackmail others.”
“And you did this all from a computer?”
“Yes.”
“But you picked my pocket.”
“My grandfather and dad taught me survival skills at an early age.”
“Survival skills,” Theo says like he’s testing out the meaning of the words.
“No credit cards?”
“No.”
“No debit card?”
“No.”
“So you’re paying for rent, utilities, and food with cash?”
“Yes.” I return a resolute nod.
“Where is all this cash?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” I grin.
“You don’t have a job. What are you going to do when the money runs out?”
“Six months. I brought enough for six months.” That’s a half truth. I brought enough money for six months if my rent was reasonable. My accepting Nolan’s offering of a thousand dollars without so much as a counter offer was very unlike me. In all fairness, I wasn’t myself.
“Then you’re going back to London to get married?”
I hop out as he parks the truck. “That was plan A,” I whisper to myself as I walk up the wood-plank ramp to the back door, carrying my windmill and a guilt-ridden conscience.
*
Yimin bows as he does every time I walk in his house.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
He puts my tea and juice on the table.
“I had lettuce yesterday. I didn’t want to, but I did. Then I added some cooked veg to my broth last night. I feel good, but I look like hell. I’m going back to solid food. It’s just a body and I know it, but I have this … itch.” My nose wrinkles.
Theo was right. I look awfully gaunt since starting my liquid cleanse. Nolan was also right, as much as it freaks me out to admit it. I had been experiencing some pain, but over the past few weeks the pain has disappeared. Looking in the mirror lately, it would appear that I’ve been doing the same thing.
Yes. I look like hell, but I’ve never felt better.
“Your books? They tell you to expect these symptoms. Yes?” he asks.
Yimin has been supportive of my desire to test out some of the theories I’ve found in my plethora of books. It started with eliminating everything that wasn’t a plant in an attempt to make my body more alkaline. Disease flourishes in acidic bodies. The next book discussed the miracles of fasting and liquid diets. The theory being that the body heals itself when it’s not busy digesting food all the time.
“Well, yes. There can be side effects to liquid fasts, but that’s not exactly what I’m implying.”
Yimin nods once, but I don’t think it’s because he understands. “Toxins leaving your body can cause rashes. I can give you a salve for it.”
“No. Um … I don’t think you have a salve for my itch. It’s more of a need.”
He nods again. Still, there’s no way he gets my point yet. This is awkward.
“I want to look physically more appealing so that a man might be willing to … scratch my itch.”
His eyebrows lift a fraction. “Sex?”
It’s my turn to nod.
He leans forward, placing his hand over mine. “Let your body live. That’s why you’re here.”
I blink back the tears. “I hope so,” I whisper.
He nods to the table. “Eat. Don’t eat. It’s your journey. But for now, drink then scratch.”
I laugh. Yimin has a sense of humor beyond making me drink piss tea. I never would have guessed. He smiles. It makes me wonder if he ever has an itch. For some reason when I meet completely put-together people, or people of high power, I have trouble imagining them scratching an itch—letting go of all inhibitions and succumbing to something so purely animalistic.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
My name is Scarlet Stone and I like theatrical masks. My father gave me a real gold mask that he “borrowed” from a museum. He said I should wear it when I need to feel brave. I wear it a lot.