Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Until it was exploding outward, smashing into my face, scraping across my skin, the impact like a blow to the side of my face, which took most of the abuse.
My neck snapped back, another pain making my eyes water.
I remembered almost before it was too late to press my finger into the lock again as the driver tossed the fob, making the engine cut.
Figuring there was no more chance of escape this way, my free hand reached to slide the gear back into park as the airbag deflated, leaving just the pain behind as I stared at an increasingly angry Michael as he screamed something at the driver.
The driver’s cold eyes slid to me, his jaw tight, not a drop of sympathy in his eyes as he turned suddenly, walking away from me.
Then coming back less than a moment later, a crowbar in his hand.
I thought he would go for the passenger door. Or the backseat.
But he came right up beside me, arm raised, slamming the bar into the window.
Once.
Twice.
The glass spiderwebbed.
Three times.
Then it broke inward toward me, pieces of glass getting caught under my hands on the seat as I tried to push myself away, cutting into my palms.
He reached inside, slicing his arm in the process, not even wincing as the blood dripped down his arm and over the car, unlocking the door, then yanking it open.
“Get your ass out here,” he snarled at me, shocking me as instead of reaching to grab me by the arm or around the waist, he gathered a handful of my hair, and yanked savagely, leaving me no choice but to fall out of the car, my back cracking against the bottom of it before I dropped to the cement floor.
I didn’t know which pain was worse then.
The slamming in my skull from the pistol whipping before. The way each strand of hair screamed as he pulled. My face and neck from the crash. Or the aching pain in my lower back from crashing into the car.
It all seemed to mingle together, this awful symphony of pain that overtook me completely as I continued to be dragged across the floor.
I reached up, trying to grab my hair above his hold to ease the sting.
But I stopped even trying as I was yanked up a step, my back colliding with the edge of that as well, making stupid, useless tears sting my eyes.
I pressed my lips together, trying not to cry out, to give him the satisfaction he was likely looking for.
The pain on my scalp eased, at least, as the door slammed behind us, and Michael said to the driver, “Just drop her there.”
I was released, and I let myself lower to the floor, curling up on my side, knees to chest, trying to protect as much of myself as possible.
Because, lord knew, this was not going to be the worst of it.
I blinked back the tears, trying to focus on my surroundings.
It wasn’t some dark, windowless space with no chance for escape. In fact, the entire back wall was lined with old, warehouse-style windows.
The floors—cement—and the walls—brick—weren’t an option.
But there was a door all the way in the back corner.
Maybe it only led to a bathroom or an office.
It was a door, though. To a different room.
One that maybe had a lock.
Or furniture that could be used as a barricade.
Nothing would last forever, of course. I didn’t need forever, though. Just until Renzo could come to find me.
“What now?” the driver asked.
“You gotten in touch with Coal yet?” Michael asked.
“Can’t get him,” the driver said.
“He’s got to have him then,” Michael said.
And suddenly, I was thinking of rushing down the street toward Renzo, who was about to follow several of his men into the building. The building where there’d been crashing noises.
Was that what Renzo had been protecting me from?
Had he picked up one of Michael’s men?
Could he already be onto him?
Maybe even on his way?
Hope was a small, delicate flicker in my chest, but I cupped my hands around it, protected it from blowing out.
Even as Michael barked an order at the driver who reached for me again, this time by the ankles, dragging me across the room. And, yes, closer to that door.
“Pretty thing, ain’t ya?” the driver asked, a dark look in his eyes making a shiver course down my spine. Every woman knew that look. That evil, animal glance. A predator hoping to sink their teeth into their prey.
Michael moved past us, paying no attention as he disappeared into that small room, flicking on a light, and letting me see the corner of what seemed like a desk sitting there.
An office then.
Lots of things could be used as weapons in an office. Pens, scissors, a paper weight.
And with a room that small, I figured if I could turn the desk, it might actually wedge against the door, making it impossible to open.