Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Anything to make me comfortable. For half a heartbeat, I'm going to slam my fist into his phony face. But before I can, he turns and walks into the hallway that runs behind this room. His caviler, uncaring attitude takes the steam right out of me. I couldn't punch him if I wanted to. Then I almost laugh as I remember I'm a leftie. I'm not even sure I can take a swing with my right hand.
For a weird moment, as my legs stride after him, the hallway spins and I feel like I might fall down. I can feel the awful burn of gravel in my forehead. I can feel the roar of pain that starts in my neck and runs from the ruined spinal discs down my shoulder, exploding in an inferno through my hand. And, oh God, I can feel my fucking hand.
My neck's so tight I think it might pop off my shoulders, and as we step into his office, I can feel the curtain falling, the curtain of badness that always leads to darkness, fear, and pain.
I knew this would happen.
My father steps past me to shut the door. I hear the click through the agony of nerve pain. I feel his hands on my elbows as he thrusts me down, into one of his leather chairs, and leans over me.
“I hope you didn’t come here to threaten me.”
I shove him in the chest, and he wraps his hand around my neck, somehow finding just the spot where the vertebrae were crushed and wired together. Just where all my pain begins. Fucking surreal. I blink up at him, breathing so hard I can barely find my voice. “You gonna finish the job?”
He loosens his grip, steps back. I'm pleased to see his shoulders are heaving just like mine are. “What do you want from me?”
“Did you know about it?” Ignoring the pain, I stand.
“Know about what?” He's rocking on his heels.
I swallow, using all my energy to focus on my words and not the pain that's still lighting up my neck and arm. “Did you know about what they did to me,” I rasp. “To my bike.”
“No,” he snorts, “I don't know the first thing about your bike.”
“Jim Gunn” —one of my father’s former bodyguards and Priscilla Heat’s partner in crime— “loosened the oil filter so oil got all over my back tire and fucked the steering.”
“The night of your accident? When you were drunk?”
“The night Jim Gunn fucked up my bike.”
His hands come up, palms out, like he's flabbergasted. “Do you think I would murder my own son?”
That’s rich, coming from a man who just had his hand around my throat.
I had to move, in secret, into Lizzy's childhood home because Jim Gunn had some rough-looking motherfucker follow me. That was before what happened with the bike, at a vineyard party last November, but after my father told Priscilla Heat that I’d found out what had happened to Missy King.
“I don't know what you would do,” I tell him bluntly, “but I know what I'll do.” I burn him with my gaze, as if my arm isn't roaring with pain, and I say, “I'll tell everyone. I'll tell the world what I know.”
I watch as my father's eyes narrow to slits: a monster cornered. “What do you want from me, Cross?”
I stand there, just breathing, thinking what do I want? I’m surprised to hear myself say, “I want you to find her.”
The bastard laughs, like it’s a dumb joke.
When I don’t blink, he does. His mouth opens, and he shuts it. “You’re serious.”
I nod. “Find Missy King. Whether it was your idea or Priscilla Heat's” —and I know it was Priscilla's— “the girl got sold as a sex slave, Dad.”
He waves a hand, as if it's no big deal, and then he says something that surprises me. Shocks me, really. “Cross, there is no Missy King.”
I frown, having trouble following; the pain in my head and neck and arm is getting worse. “Don't bullshit me. I want to know where she ended up. I want to find her. Help me or I’ll talk to the press. Unless you really would kill your own son.”
He regards me for a long moment before reaching behind him and grabbing a small flask. He takes the top off and I want to jump him, steal the liquor, douse my pain.
“Missy King is just the name she used as an escort. Her real name was Meredith Kinsey,” he says quietly, “and they sold her in Mexico. Same place you were when Priscilla lost her mind and hauled you and Lizzy down there a few months back. Sold her to a tall guy by the name of Cientos. It's all drug-runners down there, Cross. Cartels. There'll be no point. She's probably dead already.”