Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
That is not what she’s expecting to hear and I’m not sure who’s more surprised by that admission, me or her.
“Why? Why would you do that?” she finally asks.
“Doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Everything’s different now. Five minutes.”
I release her and leave the bedroom before I can do or say something else stupid. I walk back down the hall where she set her purse on the table by the door. Habit, I guess. I pick it up, go into the small living room and plop down on the couch. I open the tote.
She’s got lipstick in there, a compact, a couple of notebooks, one spiral bound, the other looks like an old diary for a little girl who likes princesses and pink. It even has what was once a small lock that’s broken.
In addition, I see two phones, one which is a burner. I pocket the burner and try to switch on the other one but it’s completely out of charge so I pocket that as well. Taking one of the notebooks out, I set her purse aside to flip through it, reading her notes. Her handwriting is tiny and neat but it’s just a jumble, nothing concrete that will give me an indication of what she’s doing in Scotland. I mean, fucking Scotland? It’s nice, I’m sure, but what is here for her? On various pages, I do see some crossed off names and addresses. All men, I note.
The diary is larger and pretty beat up. The top is stained and warped. I wonder if it was her childhood diary. Flipping through, I glimpse the date on one of the entries. It’s from seventeen years ago and the handwriting is not that of a little girl. I hear a sound from the bedroom and glance up, but it’s just her slamming some shit around so I return my attention to the diary and read a few sentences, not much of which makes sense. I flip farther back to find the first entry is over twenty years old.
It’s not her diary.
Before I can search further, I hear Amal’s footfalls as she approaches. I close the diary and pocket the smaller notebook. My gaze catches on the book lying on the dining table. The Bloody Chamber. The book she ‘borrowed’ from me.
When she enters the room, her gaze lands on that book. “Here. I’m returning your book,” she says, picking it up and holding it out for me. She’s got a large duffel slung over one shoulder.
I chuckle, standing, and open my mouth to say something but when she sees the diary in my hand, her face loses all color.
“That’s mine!”
She drops the duffel and runs to grab the diary. I pull it out of reach just because. “Take it easy. You’ll tear it. It’s old.”
“Give it to me. That’s none of your business. I mean it, Jet. Give it to me.”
“Whose is it?”
She shakes her head but keeps her lips tightly sealed. I cock my head waiting.
“It’s mine,” she lies.
“Really? So you were writing in it from within the womb?”
“You can’t read that!” She tries to grab it again, but I hold her off.
“Whose is it, Amal?”
“It’s my mother’s,” she finally says, eyes panicked. Vulnerable again, like that night I brought her to my house. “It’s all I have of hers.”
I realize I don’t know anything about her mother. Nothing at all.
“Please give it back,” she says, teeth clenched, eyes watery and sounding nothing like herself.
I hold it out to her.
She looks at it like she’s almost afraid of it. When I gesture for her to take it again, she does and holds it close. Still keeping one eye on me, she grabs the purse up from the sofa and opens it.
“Where are the other things that were inside?”
I make a point of peering into it and point out the objects I left in there. “Your lipstick’s right there and—”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. There was another notebook. And two phones.” She tucks the diary safely inside.
“You’ll get them back once you tell me what the fuck you’re doing here. Now let’s go. I don’t want my pastry getting cold.”
“Fuck your pastry and fuck you. I need those things.”
“Fuck me?” I ask with a snort, stepping toward her. Looming over her. She shrinks back looking at me like I don’t expect her to. Like she did the night she thought I’d hurt her. She sees the man I’ve become. The Devil. I back off. “Be careful, Little Virgin. Let’s go.”
“You don’t understand. I need those things!”
“Once you tell me why and what you’re doing here, we’ll discuss.”
“You don’t—”
“I’m being patient with you, Amal, but don’t push your luck.” I tell her. I bend to pick up her duffel, but she shoves me, trying to get my attention, I guess. “See now that’s pushing your luck.” I grip her arm, spin her around and smack her ass. She yelps, her free hand covering her butt as I turn her to face me again. “More of that to come in a little bit. Remember your vow of obedience.” I release her and pick up the duffel. “Let’s go.”