Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
It’s the best chance I’ve got.
It’s the only chance I’ve got.
We enter the highway on-ramp. I sit up and watch the needle on the speedometer rise. Forty miles per hour. Fifty. Sixty.
It’s now or never.
I take a deep breath and pull the release lever up with my foot. The door lock clicks its release, and I push on it with all my might.
“Fuck!” the man curses as I dive out of the vehicle. The painted yellow lines blur together beneath me as I aim for the patch grass lining the highway.
It’s the last thing I remember.
Chapter Eight
Any and all thoughts I had about Frankie Helburn being smart leap with her from the fucking car.
Stupid bitch.
I yank the wheel and cross the grassy median, the tires vibrating beneath me as I speed through the unpaved terrain. I skid back onto the asphalt in a plume of smoke from the burning rubber. The door she somehow managed to open slams shut with the force of the turn. I slam my foot on the gas pedal and cross the median yet again, circling back around to where she ate pavement at over sixty miles per house. Seconds later I slam on the brakes and screech to a stop on the side of the road.
I spot her before I get out of the car—trying to hide in the tall grass in the center of the ditch with her face down. Her glossy main of black hair is what gives her away, doing nothing to conceal her in the green and brown weeds, hiding as well as an ostrich with its head in the sand.
I stomp over with a curse on my lips and a scowl on my face. That is, until I realize why her attempt to hide is so fucking bad.
It’s because she isn’t hiding.
Shit.
I don’t even know if the bitch is breathing.
Chapter Nine
The smell hits me first.
It reeks like laundry left in the washer too long. Stale. Moldy. And something else. Something that stings my nostrils. Urine perhaps.
I struggle to open my eyes. After a few attempts they’re open, but barely.
It’s daylight. I know this much because dust is swirling around like a slow-moving cyclone within a beam of sunlight shining from under a torn window shade.
Where the hell am I?
But the answer doesn’t come.
All I know is that I’m alone in what appears to be a run-down motel room. An old TV with a cracked screen sits on top of a wooden dresser missing two of its four drawers. The horrid floral wallpaper is more torn than not. Someone has even gone so far as to color in the gaps with pink marker as if no one will be able to tell wallpaper from the scribble of a highlighter.
A battering ram of pain crashes into my chest with a strength that causes my vision to blur as I try to roll over. I freeze and shut my eyes tightly as if that can squelch the burning of my ribs. My every muscle joins in, protesting my consciousness. My right arm aches and throbs. My thoughts are jumbled together, and my heartbeat is drumming against my skull as if I’d spent last night chugging tequila.
The pain eases slightly. When I can take a deep breath again, I attempt to rub my temples to soothe the throb in my head, but I’m stopped by the bite of metal into my skin. The tear-inducing pain vibrates up to my elbow. I glance up. My sweater is torn into ribbons, showcasing large angry purple and yellow bruises that take up more space on my arms than skin. My wrists are bound to the headboard by handcuffs.
I freeze as the sharp fangs of fear pierce the skin of my throat. I close my eyes tightly and attempt to see through the fog and panic.
Think, Frankie. Think. What’s the last thing you remember?
The memory is right there within reach but it stays at the edge without so much as dipping a toe in the waters of remembrance. I growl in frustration but the movement causes me to hiss in more pain when the springs of the worn mattress beneath me stab into my back like I’m lying on a bed of knives.
The clanking and scraping of metal against metal echoes in my ears as I try to pull my hands free from the cuffs, to no avail. I try to swallow but my mouth is dry. I roll my tongue around in my mouth and taste the copper of dried blood on my teeth.
I hear a deep familiar voice just outside the closed door. It’s angry and deep. “I’m not bringing her to you. Not fucking yet. Not until I’m through with her.” Another pause. “Give me time and when I’m ready I’ll either bring you the girl or her body.”