Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 62693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
James nods at me encouragingly and Peter disappears back into the kitchen
I suppose starving myself isn’t going to do me or my children any favors. I take another step down the stairs and tense up. When James doesn’t jump at me and backs up instead I feel comfortable enough taking another step.
“I’ll even pour you another cup of coffee, just don’t throw it at my head again, okay? Wasting coffee is sacrilege,” He grins as I reach the bottom, obviously trying to make me feel more comfortable with him.
I envision doing just that and feel my lips pull into my own feral grin.
“Shit,” James grins right back. “You’re getting your coffee in a sippy cup for that.”
* * *
I spend the rest of the day in the kitchen, munching on sandwiches and pretending to mind my own business. The movers flow in and out of the house, and each box that is removed feels like they’re taking a little piece of my soul with it.
At one point, there’s a loud crash in the family room and I can hear one of the movers cursing angrily. James, Peter, and I head into the room to investigate what happened. The family portrait I had hanging above our fireplace was dropped and the glass of the frame shattered.
“Stay back, ma’am,” the mover warns me. “There’s glass everywhere.”
Seeing the last portrait of Marshall, me and the children I had taken fractured into pieces on the floor feels like an omen.
I cover my mouth with my hand and take a step back.
“I’m real sorry about that, ma’am. The company will make it right,” the mover apologizes.
James and Peter both look at me and take in my distressed state.
James curses under his breath, “Fuck.”
It’s obvious that me being upset has pissed them off.
Peter takes a threatening step towards the mover and I just know he’s going to hurt him or something.
“No!” I cry out and jump forward, grabbing him by the arm.
Peter glances back at me sharply and I plead with him, “Please, don’t. It was just an accident.”
The mover shifts uneasily. “Yeah, it was just an accident…. I’m real sorry. The company will pay for this. It will come out of my check.”
“No, no, that’s okay. Just throw it in the trash.” I drop my hand from Peter’s arm and cross my arms over my chest. “I didn’t want to take that portrait with me anyway.” I shrug my shoulders and try to look as nonchalant as possible. “Seriously, where would I even hang it?”
The mover lets out a relieved breath. I force a smile at him. “I was just worried that you were hurt.”
The mover shakes his head. “Nah. I’m fine, ma’am.”
This seems to satisfy Peter and James. We all turn and head back into the kitchen together without incident.
My heart, though, races for another couple of minutes and I feel like I’m going to be sick. It’s a long time and a lot of steady breathing before I feel better again.
When it’s time to finally pick up the kids, I nearly run out the door, eager to see them.
Picking up Evelyn is easy, she doesn’t question the black car or the driver. She just babbles away about her day and all the different toys she played with.
Adam, on the other hand, is even more suspicious.
I can tell he wants to ask me questions when he climbs in the car but he seems hesitant to do it in front of Peter.
Like I said, sometimes he’s too smart for his age.
Adam broods beside me silently and I do my best to look cool and calm for them.
“Mom, did we do something bad?” Adam asks as the car slows and I look at him with confusion.
“No, honey. We didn’t do anything bad. Why would you ask that?”
He points out his window. “Then why are we pulling into a prison?”
I scoot closer to him and peer over his head.
Damn. The place we’re pulling up to does indeed resemble a prison. There’s a fence and a guard manning it, wearing an automatic rifle over his shoulder—out in the open. Beyond the gate there’s a little guard shack and I can see the dark silhouettes of more guards.
How much protection does one man need?
The gate opens and the car rolls slowly through it as the guard waves us on. Up the long driveway, sitting on the hill is a house that’s definitely big enough to qualify as a mansion. There’s a fountain and everything in front of it.
As we pass the little guard shack, a couple of guards step out and peek at the car curiously. I turn around and watch the gate slide to a shut behind us.
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
Despair sets in as I realize we’re never getting out of this unless he lets us.
9
Lucifer
Strip clubs have a certain smell to them, one that is unique to only them. It’s a mixture of beer, tobacco smoke, pussy, and desperation.