Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
I know she was loved, even if her parents ignored her more often than was acceptable. I know Zayne thought the world of her.
I also know that the idea of love can make you do some off-the-wall shit.
I saw it in Zayne's eyes all those years ago. I knew that leaving would break his heart less than what I would have to do had he let those words slip out.
Plus, how can someone I spent so little time with love me when my parents spent my lifetime wishing they'd picked a different kid?
I'm not so out of touch that I think I'm unlovable. I know there's value in my existence, but a romantic love? Not a chance.
I growl, shoving down the well of emotion those thoughts conjure. It's the last thing I should concern myself with, given our current situation.
"I'm going as fast as I can," Zayne snaps, clearly annoyed and no doubt a little lost in his own head.
He presses his palm to the horn, the noise it makes too low for the fury behind the driver.
I look over at him, but he keeps his eyes forward.
I have no way of knowing if he's angry at the slow ass driver in front of us, if my flinch earlier when he went to touch me is eating at him, or if he's pissed he decided to get into this line of work in the first place.
I can't ask, not without being overheard, and if I take a minute to be honest with myself, I don't know that I'd be prepared for his answer. I certainly wouldn't have any fucking wisdom to impart that might settle him a little.
Instead, I reach over, press my palm gently to his thigh, give it a little squeeze, then pull my hand away.
His eyes dart toward mine for a split second, his head dipping as if he understands all that I want to say, but I know that's impossible, because I have no idea which direction I would take given the opportunity to speak freely.
Chapter 25
Zayne
I don't know what's worse—having experience with places like the one we're heading to and knowing what to expect, or being blind and only able to make assumptions, like Zeus has to be doing.
I can't count the number of times I wanted to turn this fucking truck around and head back to the Cerberus property on the drive over here. I still haven't made up my mind that I wouldn't do exactly that until I pull up to the gate, the guy walking out to greet us making the decision for me.
Instead of being questioned like a couple of cops, like the last time we were here, the guy smiles, immediately accepting us as brethren.
"I'm Ricky," he says, leaning a little further into the truck.
I lean back, the stench coming off him almost thick enough that it's a tangible thing.
"We may be fucking wrong about the water heater situation," Zeus mutters.
I keep my eyes on Ricky, grateful that he's too distracted looking over his shoulder to have heard.
"Glad you guys made it before the sun came up," he says, pointing toward the horizon. "But just barely."
I take a moment to appreciate the pink beginning to light up the sky.
"You gonna let us in, or do we have to sit here all fucking day?" Zeus growls.
Ricky grins, as if he holds all the power in the world, and a snarly bastard like Zeus isn't going to speed him up unless he wants to move faster.
"You must be Lyle," Ricky says, shaking his finger at him. "I heard you were a surly bastard."
I don't have to look back at my partner to know the man is glaring in this direction.
"Do us a solid, man," I plead. "Don't want to get on the boss's bad side on day one."
He dips his head in agreement. "Not a good place to be... ever."
"Thanks, man," I tell him, managing only a flat-lipped smile.
"I'll grab the gate," he says.
"You have anything for us?" I ask before he can get too far from the truck.
Much to my disappointment, he walks right back, leaning in the same way he did before. I do my best not to gag on the body odor rolling from him.
"Oh shit. Yeah." He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a crinkled piece of paper.
I take it from him, unfolding it to reveal a roughly hand-drawn map that has clearly been photocopied so many fucking times it's almost illegible.
"Your bunks are here," he says, pointing to an area of the map that has tiny squares drawn on it, the lift of his arm bringing a whole new wave of stench.
I swallow against my gag reflex, knowing I won't make any friends if I insult the first guy we come into contact with on our first day here. Besides, you never know who people are within the organization. We learned that from the jump with Bobby.