Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 136048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“Yeah, they’d like that,” he says. “Talk to you later, you big ugly swamp turd.”
“Right back at you, you giant—”
The line goes dead, and I suck in a sharp gasp. He did not just hang up on me before I got the chance to insult him. What an assface.
Letting out a huff, I glance down at my phone and start swiping away the notification for Mom’s missed calls, and I can’t help but wonder if Jonah is right. If I just give her a call and let her know how I’m doing, then she might leave me alone. But if I don’t, I run the risk of her showing up at my apartment, only to realize I don’t live there anymore, and that’s only going to bring more problems.
Fuck. I really hate it when Jonah is right, but that doesn’t mean I have to tell him that.
My thumb hovers over her contact information, not really wanting to speak with her, but more than happy to play it all down. If she knew just how serious this was and just how close I came to losing my life, she would insist on moving me in with her and Elias just so she could pretend to be the perfect mother, looking out for her little girl, simply so she has something to brag to her friends about.
Ugh. I think I’d prefer to risk meeting my crazed stalker in the parking garage again. Anything is better than dealing with my mother.
Letting out a sigh, I go to press down on her name just as a new text comes through from a private number. I usually delete random texts the majority of the time. They’re generally men living in their mother’s basement, hoping I would want to be a sugar baby, despite not having a single cent to their name. Either that or an Egyptian prince who wants to make me his wife, but in order for him to share all of his wealth, I’d first need to give him access to my bank account.
Or feet pics. Men always seem to ask me for feet pics. And I won’t lie, pure boredom has seen me paint my toenails and put on one hell of a foot photo shoot. Fucker never even paid me for it, but that’s what I get for sending the goods before asking for payment.
Something twists in the pit of my gut, and instead of swiping the notification away, I find myself pressing on it and opening the new text.
Well, fuck.
7
HARPER-RAYN
Astupid smile plays on my lips as I pull my scrub top down into place while watching Knight behind me in the reflection of our bathroom mirror. Today is the day. My house arrest is officially over, and I’ve finally been cleared to head back to work.
Okay, house arrest is probably a little dramatic. It really wasn’t that bad, and it’s not as though I wasn’t allowed to leave the house; Knight just made sure I didn’t have to. Anything I needed, he made sure to have it here for me. He was the perfect, delicious prison guard, though I doubt actual prisoners are getting the type of benefits I was getting during my lockup.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Knight murmurs, watching me dress.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him, turning on my heel and walking straight into his open arms. “Amelia cleared me to work, and you know she wouldn’t have done that unless she was absolutely sure. Besides, most of my shift is going to be catching up on reports. I’ll only be on my feet for a little while, and if it gets to be too much, I’ll sit my ass back down. It’s not a big deal.”
Knight gives me a blank stare. “It sure as fuck is a big deal, and you know damn well that being on your feet isn’t what’s got me worried,” he reminds me. “We haven’t caught this fucker yet. There’s nothing stopping him from coming back and finishing what he started.”
“I’ll be okay,” I tell him, already having had this argument out a few times over the past couple days. “I’ll have the hospital security walk me out to my car, and if for whatever reason the security guard is a dickhead and won’t do it, I’ll call you to personally escort my ass out to my car. I’ll be safe, Knight. You don’t need to worry about me.”
He scoffs. “You’re asking for the impossible, doll. I can’t help but worry about you, especially considering every damn phone call I get seems to be someone telling me that you’re being rushed into emergency surgery,” he mutters. “I might as well wrap you in Bubble Wrap and chain you to my bed.”
“Switch out the Bubble Wrap for skimpy lingerie, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”