Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 122609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
She gets under my skin, and I’m pretty sure she knows it. Initially, I tried to talk to her to get what I needed. Played Mr. Nice Guy. I had to send a few of my goons to work on her, break her down. Let her know this wasn’t child’s play. That worked. No, she didn’t tell them what I wanted to hear, but it left her in a state of desperation so that when I approached her again, she said yes. It also bought me more time to find out what I needed to know about her. She does care about someone after all…
Torture is a means to an end. It broke her down enough to listen. To understand that she was in over her head. Now, she’s here… listening to my father’s music collection play on the old record player: ‘Voyage to Atlantis,’ by the Isley Brothers. She’s eating my food. Drinking my water. Showering in my home. I saw her out of the corner of my eye trying to entice me. She was looking right at me as she massaged her sudsy breasts, then trailed her hand down to her stomach real slow until she landed on that honeypot between her thighs. It took all of my willpower to not stare at her. To fight the hard-on in my pants. To not strip my fucking clothes off and fuck the dog shit out of her against the shower wall… But I did it. I managed. I controlled myself. She’ll use whatever she must to get out of this situation, and that includes giving me her own ass. She doesn’t have to say it—that’s what survivors do.
See, that’s too easy. I’d fall right into her plan, and then we’d both be trapped. She’s not from my world. This woman goes to Starbucks, decorates her condo with tips from lifestyle magazines, and complains about congressmen, discrimination, and late Amazon and Target deliveries. Racism, sexism, all of the ISMs are on her radar. All of those ISMs will be here forever. They’ve been here for hundreds of years, and there isn’t a law, a class, or a TED Talk that will change that. People are going to hate, be cruel and callous out of necessity, ignorance, or simply because they can. Her mind isn’t wired like mine. She fights for what she deems as victims. I create victims…
I crawled out of the slimy gutter. I’ve killed more men than she could ever fathom. I’m a survivalist. An activist for the felonious mind. A thrivist. That’s probably not a word, but it sounds good. She simply exists… protected within her gilded cage. I will give credit where credit is due, though. Not only is she brazen and beautiful, but she’s also bright. Not just books smarts, because that means nothing in the real world, but she knows how to endure. I’m not dealin’ with a bimbo, some dummy. She knows how to get into people’s heads, too, and stay there if you’re not careful. Like some flesh-eating disease. That means she’s dangerous.
Pussy, especially when it’s attached to a treacherous woman like Honey, has brought kings to their knees, and destroyed kingdoms in a matter of minutes. It’s the most intoxicatingly poisonous, powerful drug known to man. Worse than crack, meth, and heroin combined. I refuse to fall from my reign. I’m going to turn what was meant for my demise into my victory.
Honey sat there, at the kitchen island, gripping a buffalo burger with both hands. Ketchup, barbecue sauce, and breadcrumbs collected in the corners of her mouth. Her damp hair was frizzy at the ends. When the light hit her just right, he could see through the wispy lower strands. She reminded him of a wildflower. He stood across from her, leaning into the kitchen counter with his backside, ankles crossed, drinking from a bottle of Heineken. Her eyes looked wild as they flitted about, checking her surroundings. She chewed noisily, washing it down with gulps of water. Grease covered fingertips attacked a nest of fries that she’d drizzled with ketchup and sriracha sauce. Clad in the light pink silky pajamas, she appeared as if she were enjoying a midnight snack before bed… but nothing could be further from the truth.
She toyed with one of her fries, then met eyes with him. “How soon can I go home?”
“When I’m finished with you.” He glanced at his watch, then back to his phone which lay on the counter.
“And when will that be? I told you I’m not mentally capable of taking pictures of this guy and his operation. I’d be too scared and mess it up. Are you going to help me? I don’t think I can do it on my own.” She paused to casually drag a magazine across the surface of the island toward her. It was his sister’s Cosmopolitan subscription. He mailed them to her every month with a care package. “As strange as it sounds, that’s not easy for me to admit, you know, being scared to do it, but I want nothing to do with what y’all are into… Maybe you can do it yourself, and I can just stand guard in case I see anything funny? Kind of like be your guard. That way, I can still run the story. I’m sure your pictures would be good enough. You don’t need a professional.” She flipped the glossy pages, occasionally glancing at him.