Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
I slide under the covers, switch off the light, and brace myself for the worst.
Ten minutes pass. I peek over the edge. Still there, still sad, but holding it together.
Twenty minutes. A whimper, so soft it’s almost a hiccup.
Thirty minutes. A low, mournful moan.
At the forty-minute mark, he ramps up to a full-throated beagle howl. Ouch. My eardrums throb from his rapidly increasing cries.
I try every trick I can think of.
I drop bits of cheese through the bars.
I stick my fingers inside and stroke his head, whispering, “It’s okay, little guy. I’m right here.”
I hum a lullaby. Buster pauses, listening, then howls louder—like he’s harmonizing, or maybe just telling me to stop. His little howl ends with a painful groan that almost sounds like a human moaning.
I’m trying to be tough and let him cry it out. But Buster’s cries have a way of reaching in and turning all my determination to goo. I keep picturing him abandoned in that cardboard box, alone in the dark, convinced no one is coming back.
When he cries out sharply and ends it with several little hiccup-y squeaks, I hit my limit. With a shaky breath, I kneel by the crate and unlatch the door. Buster tumbles into my arms, body trembling, tail wagging so hard I almost laugh.
“Okay, okay,” I say, burying my face in his fur. “You win. You can sleep with me tonight.”
He wriggles, pressing his cold nose against my neck, and lets out a contented snuffle. It’s like flipping a switch—one-minute pure despair, the next absolute peace.
I carry him to bed, lay him beside me, and he immediately curls into a warm, snoring crescent against my side.
I wipe my eyes, laugh at myself, and swear I’ll be stronger tomorrow. But for now, this is enough.
That’s when the knock comes.
It’s not a polite “oh, sorry to disturb you” kind of knock. It’s a knock that means business. Buster perks up, ears alert, and I feel my pulse thump in my throat.
I glance at the clock. Ten-fifty-two pm.
For a moment, I freeze—pajamas askew, eyes red, dog snuggling against my chest. I am not prepared to see another human tonight, least of all a neighbor. Especially not him.
Another knock, louder this time. Buster instantly picks up on my distress and starts his whimpering howls all over again.
Damn it. “Okay, okay, I’m coming,” I call, voice ragged.
CHAPTER FIVE
HUNTER
The night is so goddamn quiet, and my body’s dead tired, every muscle heavy and stretched to the edge from spending my two days off helping a buddy from the fire station move into his new house, but sleep never comes easy. It's better than the alternative. Lying awake and thinking about the girl next door.
I’m finally drifting, deep in that halfway zone where reality and dreams start to tangle, when a noise shoves me all the way awake. Not the hiss of plumbing or the mechanical clunk of an ice maker. This is something unexpected.
A sound—high, sharp, then low and breathless—threads through the shared wall between my bedroom and Iris’s. My heart launches into my throat, so fast it’s a wonder the force doesn’t physically jerk me upright. For a full ten seconds, I convince myself I misheard. A TV, maybe, or one of those YouTube yoga tapes she plays at odd hours.
But the next sound isn’t yoga. It’s a whimper, pitched just high enough to spike straight into my bloodstream. Then another, softer and drawn out, like the end of a long, desperate moan.
My brain short-circuits. There’s an ice water shock down my spine, and every cell in my body locks up, then flares hot. The first and only thing that flashes through my mind is that she’s not alone. There’s someone in there with her, making her sound like that.
My body locks down tight as I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache. I’m paralyzed, eavesdropping on every soft, sweet gasp and wanting to rip the drywall down with my bare hands.
More sounds. A rhythmic thumping, punctuated by a quick series of yips that could only be her. My hands fist in the blanket, knuckles gone white, but I can’t move. Can’t even breathe. This is my fucking hell on earth.
Of course, she’s with someone. Why wouldn’t she be? She’s perfect—funny, loud, and bright enough to blind every dumb bastard in the building. I always knew this would happen eventually, but the reality of it is unbearable. I can’t decide whether to cover my ears or put my fist through the wall.
Instead, I throw the blanket off and swing my legs out of bed. The tile floor is freezing under my bare feet, but I don’t feel it. I stalk to the wall, pressing my palm flat against the paint, as if that’ll block out the sound or maybe just ground me in something real. It doesn’t help.