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)
I dab the knife wound with an alcohol pad as I watch her lying on top of the sleeping bag. She looks exactly the same as she did last night, the answer to all my prayers. An angel with a halo around her head. Except, turns out, this little angel is also a hellcat.
With blood and dirt streaking her dress and her body; her fair skin tanned from being in the sun all day, and that long blond halo-like hair all tangled up, she looks like a bloodthirsty princess, sleeping peacefully after a long day of causing chaos and mayhem.
And, well, from being eaten the fuck out.
Apparently, my little hellcat of a wife squirts.
Not sure if she noticed that, but she’s gonna wake up with drenched panties again tomorrow. And fucking apparently, I’m hard as fuck again.
I clench my teeth and focus on dressing my wound. Not that it helps all that much, because every little sting and the resulting grit of my teeth remind me that she did this to me. That she stabbed me and I ate her out. By the time I finish, I’m angry and agitated all over again, and itching to do what I’ve been wanting to do since I saw her signature on the document.
I get my cell out of my pocket and turn it on. I’ve never really been a fan of cell phones, not even before I got put away. Always thought they made this crowded world a little more crowded. And now that I’m out, I fucking detest the thought of being surrounded by more people than I already have to be. Even if figuratively. Which is why I like the woods. Bad reception and no one to bother for miles on end.
Nowhere for the Turner girl to run.
Engaging the phone, I put it to my ear.
Rad picks up on the third ring. “Hey.”
His voice, as always, sounds unused. Full of thick gravel and sand.
“What does Peyton look like?” I ask without preamble.
There’s a moment of silence on the other end. Not unusual; sometimes Rad needs time to get his words together. We’re all used to being patient with him. This silence, though, feels different. Thicker, fraught with things.
Even though I’m impatient as hell for his answer, I don’t blame him for taking his time. I probably threw this at him out of nowhere. Just like when, months ago, I called him and asked him to look into the Turner girl. He was surprised back then too. But like a loyal brother, even though he’s just my cousin, he didn’t ask questions. Just went about gathering all the information he could for me. And what a revelation that information turned out to be.
“You don’t know what your wife looks like?” Rad says finally, breaking into my thoughts.
“Look, I know you’re pissed,” I tell him.
“You know that, do ya.”
“I didn’t tell you that this was what I was plannin’ on.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“But just answer the question.”
“Thought we covered this,” he retorts.
We did. That was the very first question I asked him when I told him to look into her. Not that it would’ve mattered, what she looked like. But for reasons unknown, I wanted to know the moment I got my hands on her letter.
Blond hair, blue eyes, fair skin.
That’s what he told me, and again, for reasons unknown, every time I sat down to read her words, that’s what I pictured. Every time I sat down to write a letter back, I pictured a generic shade of blond and an average pair of blue-colored eyes.
I was wrong.
Her eyes aren’t average blue; they’re the blue the sky gets just after the rain, crisp and crystal. Her hair isn’t the generic blond; it’s the kind of blond that’s a mix of sunflower and gold. And her skin is like the cream you put in your coffee when you wake up the first thing in the morning. It’s also soft and pink like the roses. She’s a goddamn Montana morning with clear skies and the golden sun and roses swaying in the breeze.
Oh, and along with the goddamn buttercups.
“Just answer the fuckin’ question,” I growl.
“Blond hair, blue eyes,” he finally indulges me.
I’m not sure what makes me go there, but I ask, “And her best friend?”
“What about”—he pauses for a fraction of a second; the length of time is negligible, and to someone unpracticed, it wouldn’t seem like a pause at all—“her best friend?”
“What does she look like?”
“Why?”
“Look, Rad, I’m sorry, yeah?” I sigh. “I’m really fuckin’ sorry I didn’t tell you what I was planning, but what the fuck did you expect when you read the Turner will?”
He scoffs. “Yeah, shoulda seen that comin’. You marryin’ into the family that killed your girl.”
I clench my teeth as a piercing pain flashes through my body. As I feel my insides splitting apart.