Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 76695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
He yanked hard, giving me no choice but to release the belt, or allow him to drag me forward by it.
Now he had another weapon to use against me.
And even more anger toward me.
His smile was twisted as he held the belt between his hands, snapping it.
I could read his thoughts, could see his intentions.
To wrap that around my throat, choking me, silencing me, as he assaulted me from behind.
And no.
No, damnit.
I’d backed myself into a corner, so my only choice was to pick which side to rush past him on.
I decided for his left, knowing his right was his dominant.
With that, I said a silent prayer, and ran with everything in me.
My shoulder rammed into him, sending him back a step.
He took a page out of my book then, striking out with the belt. The sting of it across my back had me biting into my lip to keep my cries in.
But I didn’t stop.
I didn’t slow.
I ran to that door like my life depended on it. Because it did. Carl’s did as well.
I yanked it over and flew into the hall, rushing to the door next door, and all but throwing myself into it.
I stumbled inward, falling to my knees on the carpet as the ear-splitting music slowed, then suddenly stopped.
“Help,” I gasped, stabbing a finger toward the wall of the room next door.
There was a second of stunned inaction from the band. Just kids, really. Late teens or very early twenties.
But then the drummer was rushing to his feet as the bass player unplugged.
The singer was already running across the room, the mic stand I’d been planning to use as a weapon in his hand.
“You okay?” a female voice said, making me turn to look up at the girl standing over me.
Even the smallest of bands had their groupies.
Macchiato Murder was no exception.
This girl looked all of eighteen or nineteen, decked out in full-on goth, complete with a corset and long skirt, despite it being the hottest part of the summer.
“Yeah,” I gasped, trying to catch my breath. “Can I use your phone?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said, holding it out to me.
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
“I’m okay,” I said, trying to remember Finn’s number, then stabbing it into her keypad, and waiting on bated breath.
But… nothing.
His voicemail.
“Damnit,” I hissed, handing it back to her, then climbing off the ground.
It was then that the drummer came back in the room. “He ran off out the back,” he explained. “Bryce is chasing him.”
Bryce.
An unexpected name for a hero.
“Is Carl okay?” I asked, already making my way to the door to check for myself.
“He needs to go to the hospital,” the drummer said.
“Yeah, I—“ I started.
But then I heard it.
The rumble of a bike.
Close.
It could have been anyone.
But somehow, I knew.
I knew it was him.
I changed directions, rushing toward the front of the studio as the engine cut out front.
I flew out of the front door, the sun blinding me as Finn turned.
The smile that had been forming fell as he looked at me.
“What happened?” he asked, rushing forward.
“He was here. He was who texted me. He hurt Carl,” I said, the words coming out between gasping breaths.
“Okay. Alright,” he said, reaching for me, trying to pull me to his chest.
“Carl needs to go to the hospital,” I insisted.
“Okay,” he said, sensing my desperation.
He took my hand and let me lead him inside.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“In the rehearsal room,” I said.
“No. The guy,” he clarified.
“He ran. Bryce is chasing him.”
“Bryce,” Finn repeated as we made our way into the room I’d left Carl alone in.
“The singer,” I explained, knowing I was only giving him crumbs, but I was too worried about Carl to care.
“I called the cops,” the goth girl told me as I passed.
I felt myself tense, but Finn’s hand squeezed mine, a silent reassurance that it was okay.
“You’re gonna be okay, Carl,” I said, surprised when tears pricked my eyes as I reached for him. “We’re gonna get you help.”
“I’m okay,” he insisted, but his eyes were squeezed shut. “Not my first concussion,” he added. “Got whacked in the head by the bassist of Sugar Loaf,” he added.
“Sugar Loaf,” the drummer scoffed.
“Who are you to judge, Syphilitic Scrotum?” Carl asked, making a smile tug at my lips. He might not have been doing great, but I was sure he was going to be okay.
“It’s Macchiato Murder now,” I reminded Carl. “And thank God they were here, or you and I would not be okay right now,” I told him.
“Bastard came outta nowhere,” Carl snarled.
“I know,” I assured him. “I should have… thought to tell you,” I said. “He came to my house a while ago too. It’s the same guy who attacked me in the woods.”
Carl’s jaw tightened at that.
“He needs to pay,” he said, voice low, just for the two of us.