Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
“Hannah, are you okay?”
“Y-yes,” I stutter, but she eyes me closer. “Okay, no, not really.”
She wraps a tender arm around my shoulders and walks with me to the private bathroom stall, closing us both inside with a click of the door.
I stand in front of the sink and catch sight of the mascara that’s now running down my cheeks. Lana wets a paper towel and hands it to me.
“Thanks,” I say and get to work wiping the smudges off my face. But the tears keep flowing.
“You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “No, not really.”
“You sure?”
I meet her eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “Do you like working here, Lana? Like, really like working here and doing this job?”
“Hell no.” She snorts. “But I love what the money from this job does for me and my son.”
It feels like every girl who works at CMA is doing it for the very same reason I am—because there’s no other option.
And how sad is that?
Dom wanted to give you an option, my mind cruelly reminds me.
Which only makes me cry more.
“Whatever it is, Hannah, it’s going to be okay,” Lana says and places a gentle hand to my back as I splash cold water on my face. “Everything is overcome-able.”
“Thanks, Lana,” I say, even though I don’t feel it at all. “You mind giving me a minute?”
“Of course, girl,” she answers and squeezes my shoulder before leaving the bathroom.
But is everything overcome-able?
The past five years have been an uphill battle. And I ended up so tired from the constant climb that I took a job as a phone sex girl just to make ends meet.
And now, without my Dom security blanket inside my stupid sex cubicle, without Dom in my life at all, I feel like I’ve been washed out to sea.
How did I become so attached to one man in such a short amount of time?
Because you love him.
I inhale a deep breath, take a fresh paper towel, and pat my face dry. I give myself a mental pep talk—you know, the whole “you got this” song and dance.
But before I can step out of the bathroom, my cell phone vibrates in the back pocket of my jeans, and I pull it out to find another text.
Dom: Fuck, I miss you, Hannah. Please talk to me.
My back hits the closed bathroom door and my body slides all the way down it until my ass hits the tile floor, as tears stream down my face.
Everything feels like such a mess. A big, fat mess. And the last thing I want to do is go sit inside my red-lit cubicle and take more calls.
I want to be anywhere but here.
Probably because you can’t go on like this.
39
Dominic
Monday, June 17
1:30 p.m.
“Owen Martin. Early forties male. Five stab wounds to the stomach, right shoulder, left thigh, and two to the chest,” Officer Marks updates Shane and me as we stand beside the lifeless body lying in the center of the living room of this apartment in a large puddle of blood. “We got a call from a concerned neighbor in the building. She heard yelling and loud noise coming from this apartment. We arrived five minutes after the call, but he was already DOA.”
“Do you have the neighbor’s info?” Shane asks, and Officer Marks nods, pulling his small notepad from the front pocket of his uniform shirt.
“Sara Dobbs. Apartment 503.”
My eyes survey the room, noting blood splatters on nearly every available surface in the place, along with a clear path of a violent struggle from the kitchen to the living room. Chairs are flipped over, and all items that once sat on the kitchen counter, kitchen table, and coffee table are scattered across the floor.
Everything but the suspect and the actual murder weapon appears to be here.
“Let’s get forensics out here,” I say, but irritation fills my veins as I watch a few newbie officers traipse through my crime scene like they’re tourists on vacation. “And how about we treat this like a fucking crime scene, yeah?” I call out to the room full of morons.
Everyone stops what they’re doing, but they also just stand there, looking at me.
I sigh, run a hand through my hair. “Tape off the scene, and if you’re not actively investigating this case, get the hell out.”
Officer Marks takes it upon himself to corral the newbies out of the apartment, and Shane chuckles beside me as he writes something down in his notepad.
“What?” I ask, and he slowly lifts his eyes from his notes to look at me.
“Oh, nothing,” he replies, sliding his notepad back into his inside jacket pocket. “Just wondering when whatever has crawled inside your asshole is going to crawl back out.”
I scoff. “I’m not that bad.”
He tilts a knowing grin. “Sure.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “They were traipsing through our fucking crime scene like we’re hosting an art exhibition.”