Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
My dad’s text twists my stomach into knots, and the bubble of bliss I was happily living in instantly bursts. I slide my gaze to Keats to see him rearranging his body around my absence. Legs tangled in the sheets, the blanket barely covers his backside. He doesn’t wake, but I kind of wish he would. I could use some advice.
Although I already know what I’m going to do. I may not like my dad’s impatient approach, but I know I’ll still go as demanded. Do I have a choice? He controls my entire life in the palm of his hand.
I start searching for my thong because the sooner I deal with him, the sooner I can return to Keats. My search-and-rescue ends empty-handed, so I pull on my sweatpants and then my socks. I spin once to locate my shirt, snatching it from behind the table where it landed. I don’t bother with my sweater. I can find it later.
Scooping the necklace and earrings up from the table, I quietly pad over to the other side of the room. I hook each earring to a branch, making the perfect ornaments for the bare tree, then tap to watch them dangle and catch the light.
I drape the necklace at the top and wind it around until I run out of length. Admiring my work, I grin with pride at such a simple act. It looks so much better on this tree than it ever could on me. That tree is also now holding thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry, so I’m not surprised it’s so eye-catching.
But decorating the tree is a momentary reprieve from the impending doom I’m about to face. Putting off these “meetings” has never served me well, so I might as well get it over with.
I don’t see a pen or paper, so I text Keats that I’ll see him later. Setting my phone down on the console, I slip my feet into my boots, grab my coat from the hook, and quietly exit the apartment. As soon as I close the door, I bend down to tie my laces, but realize I just left my phone inside. Dammit. I gently turn the knob only to be blocked by an automatic lock. “No.” Ugh. “For real with this?”
I can’t knock without waking Keats, so I abandon the idea and leave without it. The stairs aren’t so bad when going down. It’s the up that about killed me last night. Fortunately, I had Keats’s lips to resuscitate me.
Keats. It feels like I’m living in a dream with him.
I shouldn’t need an ally against my own parents, but I have no doubt he’d be here with me if I asked. It’s ridiculous that I trust a man I’ve only known for one night more than my own family.
I push out the door and luck into a cab passing by. Hopping in, I sit back with my father’s text plaguing me. I thought they’d be long gone on their vacation, so it leaves me worrying about why they stayed and what they want to talk about.
When I’m dropped off, I hurry to the gate to punch in the code, hoping to sneak in a shower before they realize I’m home. I shoulder the gate out of habit, only to realize it never unlocked. Huh . . . I punch the pound sign several times to clear the other code and reenter it. Again, the gate doesn’t budge. “Okaaaay. Odd.” I purse my lips to the side, confused. My stomach drops as my mind finally catches up and fills in the blanks. I press the voice communication button and wait for someone to answer.
“How may I help you?” I don’t recognize the male voice, but it is a holiday, so maybe he’s temporarily filling in.
“Hi, it’s Sosie. Sosie Stansbury. Do you mind buzzing me in?”
“Right away, Ms. Stansbury.” The lock unlatches so easily that I’m starting to think it’s no coincidence that my code didn’t work.
I’ve had knock-down, drag-out fights with my parents before, but my gut tells me that is not what’s about to happen. It’s worse.
CHAPTER 9
SOSIE
It’s quite an accomplishment to rip me from the high I was riding after the best night of my life to making me feel small and nothing more than a burden. But as I stand here waiting to be let into my own house, my father has managed to do just that with three simple words. Get home. Now.
It leaves me wondering at what age will I finally be treated like someone he cares about or, at the bare minimum, a human?
The door opens to an unfamiliar face staring back at me. Dressed in a suit, he holds his chin in the air with a stiff, straight back and says, “Your father is waiting for you in his office.” That’s not good.