Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
It’s midmorning when he finally makes his appearance in jeans, boots, and leather jacket, carrying a gun on his hip. This is new. While he’s had weapons around, this is his first time wearing one. I don’t want to be attracted to the asshole, but it’s an aesthetic that suits him. I have long since drunk the coffee and eaten the lemon scone he left for me, brushed my hair and teeth, and settled in to read. I assume he baked before we lost power and used a propane burner for the caffeine.
His absence today has made me curious as heck. And I can smell smoke again, which is making me nervous. There’s something in the air. I don’t know how else to explain it. But the vibes are off.
“How close is the fire?” I ask before he can get a word out.
“It’s the police station a couple of blocks over.”
“Shit.”
From out of his back pocket he pulls a key. “Get your shoes on and grab whatever you want to bring with you. But bear in mind we’re traveling light.”
“We’re leaving right now?”
He nods and draws the chain through the panels of fencing that have been keeping me imprisoned. I, meanwhile, do as told and deal with my socks and shoes. Any chance to get out of here is a very good thing. The sky-blue backpack is deposited beside me on the bed, and I add the photos and a few other items. Though he’d put a lot in the bag, it still weighs more than I expected.
“It’s bulletproof,” he says, reading my frown correctly.
“Oh.”
This is really happening. He’s not playing with me and giving me false hope. I am actually getting out of here. The gap in the cage where the fencing swings free like a door seems like an illusion at first. Something I wished and dreamed into being. But then I am stepping through, and thank fuck. Finally out of the cage. It feels like I’m taking my first real breath in days. Freedom, you beautiful bitch.
However, there’s a distracting tension to Dean. His movements are hurried as he ushers me up the stairs. He picks up another black leather jacket from the back of a chair that screams single white heterosexual male. One of the great ugly recliners of our time. No doubt he has spent years watching football or whatever in the hideous piece of furniture.
And the front door is right there. Like a dozen steps would see me standing in front of it, and then grabbing the doorknob and dashing out into the open air and away from him forever more. It is so tempting.
“Put it on,” he says, handing me the jacket.
“What’s happening?”
“Some people are working their way up the block breaking into houses, looking for stuff to steal.”
“Are they sick?”
“I don’t know, and we’re not hanging around to find out.”
“You don’t want to defend the house?”
He shakes his head. “Getting into a gunfight would cause a whole lot of noise and bring us attention we don’t want. Staying here was never the aim. We’re just leaving sooner than expected.”
I nod as he does up the zip on my jacket. “Okay.”
“We’re going through to the garage, getting on my motorcycle, and then getting out of here. That’s the plan.”
“Got it.”
“Are you sure about that?” he asks, staring into my eyes.
“Yes.”
He takes my hand and leads me through his house. It’s the first time we’ve touched, apart from the small matter of an abduction. “Put a mask on and let’s go.”
“You said a mask wouldn’t help with the virus.”
“Yeah. But dead bodies can be a breeding ground for all sorts of shit.”
The décor in his living room is sparse. Some scenic framed photos and books. So many books. It almost makes me think better of him. One lone, sad, wilted potted plant that has a definite case for neglect. Not much else is here. It would seem he actually made an effort downstairs with the rug, cushions, and throws for me. Which is kind of both sweet and strange.
Having a stalker isn’t quite what I thought it would be like. Not that I ever gave it much thought.
In the garage sits an oversized truck with his name and number stenciled on the door. The man wasn’t lying about being a contractor. And a gleaming Triumph motorcycle with saddlebags or whatever they’re called, packed and ready to go, also awaits us as promised.
He grabs a helmet off a workbench and carefully puts it on me. Then he does his own in a far hastier manner. Blood pounds behind my ears. It’s all I can hear. Boom, boom, boom. He gets on the motorcycle far more gracefully than me. Like he’s done this a thousand times or more.
“Arms around my middle,” he says. “Hold on tight. Real tight. And don’t let go.”