Total pages in book: 331
Estimated words: 315585 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1578(@200wpm)___ 1262(@250wpm)___ 1052(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 315585 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1578(@200wpm)___ 1262(@250wpm)___ 1052(@300wpm)
Good one, angel.
I smile, turning the water off and tossing the towel into the sink. My girl wants to play. I’ll make sure to play with her.
Exiting the room, I go to Tyson’s trunk and pop it open. “Bingo.” I smile to myself, reaching in and grabbing the bag. You can always count on a Lord to have the essentials on him at all times.
Closing the trunk, I make my way back into the motel room. I pull out my cell and go to my music. Seconds later, “Even If It Kills Me” by Papa Roach fills the small room.
I throw the bag onto the bed and unzip it. I’ll be ready to play with my girl when she gets back.
SEVENTY
EVERETT
“Can I have a bucket of ice?” I ask, sitting down at the bar as “Comedown” by Bush plays on the old speakers.
The bartender looks at me oddly, and I want to roll my eyes. Where the fuck is Missy when you need her? Probably still passed out at Adam’s house after getting punched in the face last night.
“Sure.” She finally nods, and I go to get cash out of my clutch but realize I left it in the motel room.
“Fuck,” I hiss. I could go get it but decide not to. He’s going to choke me out the moment I step back into that motel room.
Joke’s on him. I’m looking forward to it. The longer he simmers, the more pissed he’ll be.
I need…something, and I’m not sure what it is. I just feel lost and confused. I need him to make me feel alive. To feel like someone else.
“Everything okay, honey?” the guy next to me asks, sipping on his scotch.
“Yeah.” I sigh. “No. I forgot my wallet.” I hold up my right hand. “Need to soak my hand in some ice.” It’s starting to swell. My knuckles are bruising.
He frowns, glancing at it. “That looks pretty bad.” I cup it in my other hand, and he gestures to the bartender. “Whatever she needs is on me tonight.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“You can and will.” He winks.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
The bartender brings me a bucket of ice, and I shove my fist into it, hissing in a breath at the frozen water.
“What happened?” He scoots his barstool closer to me.
This is why a woman should never allow a man to buy her anything. He immediately wants something in return for it. Even if it’s just your time. He thinks you owe him something.
You don’t.
“Got in a fight with my husband.” I hold up my other hand and show him my wedding ring.
“Oh.” His eyes widen at the size. “That’s…pretty.”
I shrug. “I guess so. Not like it means anything.”
“How did getting into a fight hurt your hand?” he digs more. It’s not that he’s really interested. He just wants to keep me talking. If I’m chatting with him, I’m not talking to anyone else.
“Went to hit him and missed. Hit the wall instead.”
His eyes roam my face, neck, and chest that my dress exposes before dropping to my thighs. “Well, it could have been much worse.”
“Meaning?” I know what he’s implying, but I want to hear him say it. It gives me reason to stab him.
“A woman who hits a man can’t expect him to not hit her back,” he answers. “We have to protect ourselves too.”
A man like him will say anything to justify any type of abuse. “I guess so.” I drop my eyes to my legs and pull my hand from the ice bucket, cradling it to my stomach.
I’m not saying I’m any better than a man right now. Did I go a little overboard with Kashton tonight? Yes. I just wanted to be alone. I needed a moment, and no one was giving it to me.
But he came for me. That’s what I’ve always wanted. For someone to care enough to show up, and Kashton always does.
“Thanks for the ice. I should get going.” I stand from the barstool.
“You’re upset. You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
Unbelievable. But I’m not surprised. This bar is known for rapists and human trafficking. Statistics cite it’s usually someone known to the victim. A family member or someone close to the family. They gain your trust and then turn on you when they think they’ve got you right where they want you. The ones who don’t bother to get to know you are few and far between. All they see is an easy target and a fast payout.
Dollhouse is an exception to all the rules. Typically, when you’re kidnapped and sold, traffickers want you out of the country. But Dollhouse pays a premium dollar to those who bring in people to be trained. They don’t ask your name or where you come from because they wipe whatever life you had clear away. You become a number and show up on an app for others to bid on.