Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 66651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
“Go ahead, kitten. I want to watch you work.” I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding and look back at Anthony with disbelief.
“I told you I’d give you your life back. I’m a man of my word.” I search his eyes for anything but sincerity, but that’s all I see. I bite my lip and look back to the computer.
I have work to do, and this is going to take me fucking forever. I shift in his lap. This isn’t going to work, but I don’t want to push my luck.
“You typically write on your bed, don’t you?” he asks.
A chill runs through me at the reminder that he watched me before taking me. “I do.”
“Go ahead. I’ll sit here. I have a book I’d like to read.” It takes a moment for his words to sink in, but when they do, I take my chances and get my ass up and move to the bed with my laptop. I keep my eyes on him as I put the pillow against the headboard for support, and another on my lap for the computer. I’ve always typed this way. I imagine I always will. It’s a bad habit to break.
I watch as Anthony rises and walks to the bookshelf, choosing a paperback and lying down on the sofa. He crosses his ankles and it’s the sexiest sight I’ve ever seen.
It’s fucking unreal that he’s letting me get online.
Something’s up though. And I don’t fucking like it. Everything is a test. Every last fucking thing. My eyes stay on him as I type in my password. My email is slow to open, but it does. I click on my emails one at a time and type my responses, but I keep looking back to Anthony. He simply turns a page, appearing fully engrossed in his reading.
I feel so fucking uneasy. He’s not at all what I expected, and the thought that I’d be able to do this is just...insane. He's fucking insane. Not just mentally unstable, but certifiably insane if he thinks I’m not going to message someone--anyone--that I’ve been taken. I don’t give a fuck that he’s been nice, or that he’s hot, or that this is literally a fucking dark dream come true for me. There’s no way I’m not going to try to get the hell out of here.
I click on a new tab and bring up Facebook. Cheryl’s my personal assistant and my go-to gal for everything. My cursor hovers over the box to message her, but she’s already sent me five messages. The third one was her freaking out that I didn’t respond at all yesterday, but the fourth and fifth are her fixing my shit and wishing me well because she refuses to believe that I’m dead and I better fucking message her back or she’ll find me and kill me. Yeah, that’s Cheryl.
I type in a lame excuse and don’t mention shit. Yet. I want to. Every fucking voice inside of me is screaming to do something and tell someone. But I’d be stupid to think I’d get away with it, right? I watch Anthony for a minute as I copy and paste an email to send to another reader.
What would he do to me if I did? Kill me. The answer is obvious, but he hasn’t hurt me yet. My ass smarts at the thought. It still fucking hurts, although the cream he rubbed in did wonders for the worst of the pain. I don’t know where I am. I’m not sure that there’s any way they’d find me.
Hey, Cheryl. Some psycho took me, I’m not sure where. Could you figure out a way for someone to rescue me?
Yeah...that’s not going to fucking work. My heart races and my fingers itch to type something, anything to help me get the fuck out of here.
I will be good. I will not email the police and post all over social media that I’ve been kidnapped. 'Cause that would be fucking obvious. But I could sure as fuck sneak in some clues.
I type in, Busy with Comfort Food, hoping she’ll catch on. It’s a classic book where the heroine is kidnapped. I hope she understands and catches the subtlety. Maybe she can help me. She can relay information for me, and I can figure out where the fuck I am.
She instantly replies, Whatcha eating?
Jesus, Cheryl. I barely keep myself from rolling my eyes. As I consider what to type next, Anthony’s phone pings in his pocket. He takes it out and looks at it and then right at me. My heart stops. But he merely gives me a tight smile and goes back to his book.
I can’t help but think that message was about me. That I’d been caught. My skin prickles with goosebumps and my hands shake. What would he do if he caught me? What good would it do for people to know I’d been taken if they had no way to find me? It takes me a moment, but I’m finally able to type back, Omelettes, brb.