Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
She remains quiet on the other side. “Fuck’s sake.” I pull my gun out and aim it at the lock, thinking this will be far quicker than trying to reason with the silly woman. Then a scrap of lost reason muscles past my building frustration and advises me against it.
I sigh and tuck my gun in the back of my trousers. “Camille, this door is really pretty,” I say quietly, knowing she’s on the other side, probably with her ear pressed to the wood. “Would be a shame to damage it.” I notice a looking hole and smile to myself. Then I slowly lean forward, bringing my eye closer and closer until it’s pressed up against the small cylinder of magnifying glass that runs through the wood. There’s a scuffle and a burst of activity directly behind the door. I chuckle to myself. The girl is impossible. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”
“Fuck you!”
My head drops on my shoulders, jarring my neck as I weigh up my options. I can either break this door down, and lower myself to her childish approach to this situation, or I can show her that this situation isn’t going anywhere, no matter how difficult she is. And I mean the threatening, anonymous-message situation. Not the potent chemistry that’s bitten me on the arse and chewed until it hurts. Women have served one purpose to me and one purpose alone. Neither frustration nor fury is that purpose. In fact, those two exact emotions are why women and I are best kept on limited time spans. Camille Logan has already overstayed her welcome in my life.
Looking down at the carpet, I decide against any further sparks tonight and sit my tired arse down, ready for a long fucking night. With my back resting against the door, I pull my phone out and send a quick update to Logan, only just stopping myself from tagging on the end that his daughter is a headstrong little madam. I do, however, tell him that the ex-boyfriend is back in town.
Then I pull up my contact list. And my heart jumps. Abbie’s name stares up at me, and my finger hovers over the dial icon, lowering and lifting time and time again. Contact will serve one purpose. Spiking memories. I don’t need those. I laugh out loud, a cold, chilling laugh. The memories are always there, torturing me daily, but I don’t need to fuel them. I don’t need to go back to places that are only going to enhance the agony and the hatred for a woman who tore me apart and sent my life into a downward spiral.
I chuck my phone to the side and press my head into the wood behind me, looking up at the ceiling as I fight to clear my mind. My phone starts ringing, a welcome distraction from one of my regular internal battles, and I look to see Logan’s name. I’m not surprised. Before I connect the call, I put my ear to the door, hearing distant movement. She’s not listening.
“Thought you’d call snappily,” I say in greeting.
“Sebastian Peters.” There’s pure venom in Logan’s tone that I can fully appreciate. I’ve read all the shit on the Internet. “He nearly broke her.”
“Is this why you’ve hired me?” I ask outright, thinking maybe Camille was onto something.
“No, you know why I’ve hired you. You’ve seen the message, but it won’t hurt for you to look out for Sebastian Peters.” There’s an edge to his tone that reeks disgust. Yes, I’ve seen the message, but why do I get the feeling I haven’t heard everything? “He has a fondness for cocaine. I don’t want that shit anywhere near my daughter again.”
“Right,” I breathe, thinking protection against ex-boyfriends isn’t what I signed up for. I’m a bodyguard. Not a counselor or a therapist. It’s not my job to stop Camille Logan shoving cocaine up her nose if that’s what she wants to do. But I fucking will.
“I’ll call you if I have anything to report. You should extend the same courtesy to me.” I hang up before he can confirm that he will, and shift one way, and then the other, trying to get comfortable, my legs extended at full length in front of me.
After ten minutes in that position, my knees come up, my forearms resting on them. Ten minutes later, my gun is stabbing at my lower back and my arse is starting to go numb. I’m being paid, I remind myself. A lot. I can endure this shit. I’ve been in worse places in worse conditions.
I close my eyes and imagine thorns from overgrowth severing my cheeks as I crawl on my elbows through wild terrain, and before I can stop my mind from spiraling, it moves on to the vision of my comrades, Danny and Mike, lying dead in the dirt. I feel the deep ache of a bullet buried in my shoulder. The smell of death invades my nose, and the screams of innocent civilians fill my ears. Then a clear mental image of her face reminds me of how I came to be amid the anarchy. The anarchy that I caused.