Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
In fact, writing letters to an asshole cowboy behind bars is probably the most exciting thing I’ve ever done in my life. And good thing I did because your answers were really helpful. It pains me to say it because your ego’s just going to grow bigger, but I do think I may be able to score a passing grade. Who knew that an asshole cowboy could teach a little college girl something? Although, I will say I’m not little.
If I didn’t hate you so much, I’d ask you to teach me how to ride too. Because in my non-adventurous life, I’ve never ridden a horse before. But you know, I’ve seen people do it and read about it a lot so how different could it be?
Until next time,
Peyton
PS: I’m sending you another list of questions that are just as annoying as the last but only because I think I like you now.
I CAN’T SEE.
My hands are tied. My feet are tied too.
I’m lying on my side, and there’s a throbbing pain in my shoulder. I’m trying to think why. I’m trying to think where I am. Then I try to move. My hands, my legs, my shoulder, anything that I can think of. Which is when I realize I’m in a box.
No, wait. I think… I think I’m somewhere else. Somewhere much scarier. Much, much. Because this thing that I’m in is moving. It’s jostling me. Jolting and bumping and… Holy God, I’m in a car.
I’m in a trunk.
I’m blindfolded and all tied up in the trunk of a car, and I’m being taken somewhere. Oh, my fucking God ! I’m being kidnapped. By Bo.
No, by a Grayson.
I am, aren’t I? He’s kidnapping me. He is… I can’t breathe. I can’t…
This isn’t real. This isn’t… happening. This has to be a mistake. This has to be…
I’m wheezing and thrashing and hitting my feet, my shoulder, my palms against the walls in an attempt to break free. Even through my mad panic, I know it’s foolish, that I’ll never be able to get free. Still, I keep doing it and doing it and fucking doing it. Until it becomes my downfall and drains out whatever energy I had.
And I slip away.
There’s a head on the wall.
A bear’s head. It has the meanest yellow eyes I’ve ever seen. I’m trying to determine if it’s real; it can’t be, right? I mean…
Wait.
Wait a second.
I can see. I can fucking see!
As soon as my brain registers that, I knife up into a sitting position and frantically look around. Instead of a car or whatever vehicle the box was in, I’m out of the box and in a room now. A room with walls made of dark wood and decorated with animals’ heads. There’s not one, not two, but three bears’ heads surrounding me.
Three.
In addition to a pair of antlers. What the…?
The room is sparsely occupied, so there isn’t much to see except a chest of drawers to my left, made of the same dark wood as the walls and the floor, and a nightstand. Again, dark and wooden. Oppressive. And then there’s the bed that I’m currently sitting in.
I look down at myself, and the first thing I notice is the burns. Rope burns around my wrists. All red and angry. My dress from yesterday—somehow, I know enough time has passed that it’s tomorrow—is all dirty and streaked with dirt and grease. A sheet covers my lap, dark like the rest of the decor and stark against the backdrop of my white dress. The sheet is scratchy, as if it hasn’t been used in a while, but it’s warm. Meaning somehow I’m the first person to end its disuse, and I’ve been doing that for possibly a few hours now.
Oh my God, what is this place?
What the fuck is this place, and what am I doing here? What…
I spring out of the bed, but as soon as my bare feet hit the hardwood floor, I realize how weak I am. How shaky and jittery, and how the entire room spins. I’m going to throw up. I am. I feel the bile rising. But somehow, some way, I manage to drag in a breath and keep the contents of my stomach in.
When I get my bearings back, my eyes zero in on the door right in front of me.
And I run.
I don’t think about it. I don’t think about what I’m going to find on the other side of it. All I know is that I need to get to it. I need to turn that silver knob, open the door, and get out of here. I need out, out, out of this oppressive room where I can’t seem to catch my breath. And I’m there. I’m right there, my arm stretched out, fingers within touching distance of the knob, when it happens.