Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
All of this is what I’m thinking as I realize I forgot to bring my towel into the bathroom with me. But this isn’t enough to quell my overflowing, and smug, satisfaction over how I will spend my last few days up here in relative comfort instead of being tortured with the misery of primitive accommodations, and how I will be congratulated when I get back and given more up-top jobs to take advantage of.
I did it.
I made it.
I’m back.
These words are flowing through my head when I come bounding down the stairs and see the woman.
Her mouth is open, her eyes are wide, and she is about to scream.
Luckily, all my advanced training kicks in. I jump down the remaining stairs, cross the space between us, slip behind her, and have my hand slapped against her mouth before that scream comes out.
Not that anyone would be able to hear her—this house is nearly half a mile from town and the estate is so big, there are no close neighbors. It’s not the scream I’m worried about. It’s the time ticking off that makes this whole situation worse, because the longer I wait to respond, the longer she has to get a good look at me.
So all my actions are instincts. I drag her down the hallway to the kitchen where my clothes are, stuff an old rag in her mouth, wrap my clean t-shirt around her head to blindfold her, pull her arms behind her back, ratchet a belt around her wrists, open the nearest closet, and throw her in, slamming the door behind her. There is a loud thunk as she hits the hardwood floor.
The whole thing takes about ten seconds.
Then I stand there—back pressed against the door, still naked and breathing heavy—as my mind finally catches up with my actions.
And that’s when I realize how fucked I am.
She saw my face.
I go back upstairs, my mind spinning with my limited choices as to what to do next, when I reach for my jeans and pull them on. I grab yesterday’s t-shirt off the bathroom floor, pull that on, and then peer out the window, trying to determine if she’s alone.
There’s a huge black SUV in the driveway with a trailer hitched to it, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone waiting for her outside.
I take a breath, hold it, then slowly let it out, trying to calm my racing heart.
She’s the owner of the house, obviously. Moving back in, maybe?
I don’t know why that would be the case. This place is fine for squatters, but this woman doesn’t look like she’s into roughing it. She’s wearing fancy clothes, high heels, and lots of makeup. Which, in my experience, translates to… ambition.
And ambitious women, in my personal opinion, are dangerous.
None of that really matters. What matters is how many people know she’s here. How many people will I have to silence to cover up my mistake?
Down on the first floor the woman starts kicking the closet door, trying to scream past her gag, but I don’t pay any attention to that. I’m busy thinking about my now very short list of choices.
There is no way I can let her go. It’s not gonna happen. She saw my face. And while she doesn’t have a clue as to who I actually am, this is a Disciple house and that means she’s a Disciple resident.
She doesn’t need to know anything. All she needs to do is report me to Jim Bob Baptist, who will then take this information straight to Collin Creed, and from there… I’m fucked.
Absolutely fucked.
I am three days out from completing this job and earning my way back into the good graces of my father and there is no possible way I will allow this woman to get me sent back to those tunnels.
I will not spend the rest of my life drilling in the dark. It’s not gonna happen.
I go back downstairs and pace the hallway, ignoring her kicking feet and muffled screams. Then I start opening doors, looking for the basement because I’m gonna throw her down there and tie her to a beam or something while I finish the job I’m here to do and leave.
What happens to her after that is not my problem.
I know there is a basement because I saw the boarded-up windows from the outside. But despite searching the entire first floor, I cannot find the access point.
This is when I remember I need to get rid of her car.
How many Disciple townspeople have passed the house and noticed it already? How soon before one of them recognizes it and comes to see why she’s here? Clearly, moving back in at this point in the renovation wasn’t the plan.
I walk to the closet, open the door, push her down, grab her kicking feet, flip her over, and sit on top of her. It’s not a comfortable position because her hands are tied behind her back, so I know the pressure I’m putting on her shoulders is nearly unbearable. But I need her to shut up and listen, so I lean in to her neck and whisper, “Stop kicking, stop screaming, and if you do that, I’ll ease up. But I’m not gonna put up with your bullshit. Either you listen to me and cooperate, or I’ll kill you.” She was wriggling up to this point, but the threat makes her go still. “Do you understand me?”