Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
I’ve only been here for thirty minutes, and already, I’m tired of it. This week has been a week from hell, and I needed a moment to myself to clear my mind. At least that’s what I told myself. But it was just a lie. That house feels so much like a prison, and I needed out. I needed to get drunk and just get fresh air.
I’m getting neither of those.
My life has been decided for me. Well, at least until I can get away from George. And I’m not sure I can live it.
Not like this.
Not under his control.
In the past week, George has come to me one other time since the night I came home drunk and found out he fired my mother’s nurses. And that is two times too many. The only thing about it, is that he can’t last more than two minutes. And other than the first time, the other one I had plenty of notice, so I made sure to down a few bottles of whatever I could find. Afterward, I sit in my shower crying, hoping that he will drop dead and die like my father did. So far, luck is not on my side.
I pound my fist on the bar. “Hey, asshole. I need a drink …”
He nods at me, and I almost smile. “What can I get you?” he asks.
“A shot of vodka.” I’m not playing tonight. “Actually, make that three.” Who knows how long it’ll be until he returns?
He sets out to make my drinks, and I pull out my debit card.
Setting it in front of me, I slide my card across the bar. I down the first one as he runs my card. I’m setting the glass down when he comes back. “Your card was declined.”
“What?” I frown. “Can you run it again? There must be some mistake.”
He shakes his head. “I ran it three times, ma’am. Insufficient funds,” he states as another guy hollers at him. “I’ll be back.” He walks away to help the other customer, and I slump against the bar.
Has George shut off my card? No. He can’t have that kind of access. Can he? I dig my cell out and send him a text.
Me: Did you turn off my card?
I’m tapping my heel on the floor as my phone vibrates with a response.
Motherfucker: All accounts have been frozen for the time being.
Me: What the fuck does that mean?
He reads it immediately, but this time, he chooses not to respond. No. No, this can’t be happening. Why would they freeze his accounts? Is the IRS investigating him? Is it some kind of protocol? Was my father in trouble with the law? A million questions run through my mind.
I run a hand through my hair and then start digging through my clutch. I find fifty dollars. Shit! What am I going to do for money? I thought I had time. There was fifteen thousand dollars in that account.
“All I’m saying is I would totally win,” a man says as he shoves his way through the crowd and comes to stand next to me.
I look up at him, and he’s every bit of six feet to my five feet six. With heels on, he still towers over me. He places his hands flat on the bar, and it causes the sleeves to his leather jacket to ride up. And I see black ink cover his skin, wrapping around his wrist like a second sleeve. His fingers drum the bar top, and I see a silver ring that has a skull on it with crossbones.
I’ve seen that before …
“I wouldn’t bet on you,” another guy says, coming to stand on the other side of him.
That voice sounded familiar …
The man next to me gasps. “I’m offended. You know, if we were in high school playing dodge ball, I would pick you to be on my team. Why do I feel like you wouldn’t choose me?” He pushes his bottom lip out that has a silver hoop in it.
“’Cause I wouldn’t.” The friend snorts. “You’re short and too slow.” Then he lets out a whistle, and the bartender looks up at him. “Usual,” he calls out.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter to myself, glaring at the other guy. He’s taller and broader, but the guy standing next to me doesn’t allow me the best view of his face. He reaches into his back pocket and removes his wallet, pulling out a couple of hundred-dollar bills. I notice he too wears the same ring on his right hand. My heart starts to pick up.
He’s not wearing a jacket, so my eyes run up his ink covered muscular arm. His tattoos peek out from underneath his shirt, and a set of black wings wraps around his throat, crawling up the sides of his head where his hair is shaved close to the scalp. My eyes meet his and widen.