Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
“Come here, Callie.”
I recognize the voice.
“Gray!”
Something is tickling in my head. I wanted to talk to Gray about something, but I cannot for the fucking life of me remember what, or why. Was it something about work? Maybe. Would have to be.
“I’m taking you home,” he says.
“There was a man,” I say.
“Don’t worry. There’s not one anymore.”
I find that satisfying.
My mind is so hazy. Ridiculously so. Gray works for my company. But he’s also a bad person, I think? No. Yes? Wait. No. Yes? And also the cops are looking for him. But also he just saved me from someone who was trying to do terrible things to me.
Being drunk makes thinking difficult, so I stop bothering.
“I hate you,” I say. “But I think you saved my life, so I guess…”
“Come on,” he says. “I’m taking you home.”
He gets me into the front seat of a vehicle. A van, I think? Weird. I expected him to be a sedan man. Anyway. I’m in a van now, and I’m drunk. And he’s putting the seatbelt on me, which I can do for myself, or at least I used to be able to do that. My fingers feel like they’re someone else’s fingers. Oh, wait. They are. They’re his. That explains a lot, actually.
“You’re a cute drunk,” he says.
“You’re a fucking asshole, but I can’t remember why,” I reply. He’s a bad man. He did a bad thing. But there was another man, and he did another bad thing, and there’s not really any way to find good men. So I wonder if everybody just has bad men, but they either don’t know it, or they do. My dad was a good man, but he died.
“Keep your head up,” he says, reaching over, two fingers under my chin, and tipping my head back against the headrest. I didn’t even realize my head was dropping forward. I thought my lap was just really cool.
The world is going around and around, and suddenly I’m home. Not sure how that happened.
Gray helps me into my house. He fishes my keys out of my purse and he unlocks the door and he pours me indoors. My hands and knees find the floor with unerring accuracy.
“Hey, come here,” he says, urging me up. “I’m going to make some coffee. You need to sober up a little before I leave you alone. I’m not sure you’re safe.”
“I’m not sure you’re safe,” I echo in response.
He seats me on a couch and goes to the kitchen to start making my beverage. I don’t need coffee. I need answers. I reach for my laptop, half open on the table in front of me. I pick it up, but it stays on the table. I pick it up. Wait. What am I doing?
I put it down on the floor.
Gray comes back. Does he want to talk to me about possibly upping the marketing budget? My brain keeps switching between thinking I am at work and knowing that I am at home.
“Drink this,” he says, putting a cup of dense black liquid in front of me. It looks and smells like the void.
“Why are you here?”
“Well, I like to keep an eye on you,” he says. “I can’t for much longer. You’re going to have to stop drinking. You need a clear head. And a new thing to do.”
I reach for the beverage. But it’s hot. Too hot.
“Drink some.”
“I need milk.”
“You don’t have any.”
“But I need it.”
“I added some water.”
“Oh, well, that’s okay. Is it mashed potato?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just add water?”
This is good banter. I am a funny and witty person. I know this because I am making myself giggle. He’s not getting the joke, but that’s because he’s not as funny as I am.
“I’m going to get you to bed,” he says. “You’re exhausted.”
“I’m not tired,” I say as my eyes roll back in my head.
“You’re dangerously exhausted, and drunk.”
“I’m getting more sober by the moment.”
“I know that, but I’m putting you to bed regardless. Come on.”
He helps me up from the couch, sniffs, and shakes his head.
“You’re dirty as hell,” he says. “You need to have a shower.”
“Don’t want a shower.”
“I’m not putting you into bed like this. You’re dirty, baby.”
He takes me to the bedroom and starts undressing me. It’s not like when the other man was pawing at me, it doesn’t feel greedy and cruel and nasty. It feels like being made vulnerable. He can’t see me. I won’t let him.
I wriggle out of his grasp and find the floor again. It’s cooler here. Nicer. Very stable and solid.
“You are such a little brat,” he growls, coming after me.
You can’t hide on the floor. Floor is for everybody. Everybody can see and touch floor. If you want to hide, you need wall.
He starts taking the shirt off me. And I remember. The thing. He can’t see the thing.