Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
"Here," he said, finding a pile of clothes, handing them off to me. "Go get dressed. I'll order some food. Something hot to warm you up."
I realized as I made my way to the bathroom that he hadn't been pissed. That I hadn't texted. That I didn't tell him I was on my way back.
Truly, I meant to. I was so unaccustomed to answering to anyone that it had completely slipped my mind in my race to get back, to get clean.
"I know better than to ask where you went," he said when I walked back into the room. "But how about I ask if you're alright."
I felt my lips curve up a bit at that, not sure the last time someone asked how I was.
Holden cared. In his way, he cared. But he wasn't a touchy-feely "is everything alright" sort of guy. He wanted to know if you had any gaping holes anywhere that needed to be stitched up, and that was about it.
I guess how could he ask me if I was okay—mentally, emotionally—when he was clearly anything but?
"I don't really know how to answer that," I admitted. Because, physically, I was just fine. A little banged up. I had a bruise the size of a foot on my side. But it was just a nagging sort of ache if I moved the wrong way. Emotionally, mentally, well, I wasn't even sure. Could anyone who took lives for a living ever be truly alright? No matter how noble the cause.
Surprisingly, Vance nodded his head at that, accepting it as an answer. I was pretty sure most of the people in my life would have pried, would have demanded more of an explanation.
"Are you going to be running off again like that anytime soon?"
"I don't have any plans to." I always had feelers out, was always looking for the next big bad, the rising star in the trafficking world, and a couple of elusive cases that had been nagging at me for years. But I had no current leads, no one on the horizon that I knew about.
If the emails came in, if the information was there, then, yeah, I would need to go. But I figured I had a few weeks before that happened.
"I guess I will have to learn to live with that uncertainty," he said, shaking his head.
"Unpredictability keeps you on your feet. What kind of pizza did you get?"
"Quarter plain, quarter pepperoni, quarter mushrooms and onions, and a quarter veg."
My old favorite order. I had needed to beg the pizza place to make it every single time because it wasn't something that they offered. You got toppings on the whole thing or half and that was it.
"Why didn't I hear any pleading?" I asked, brows lowering.
"Perks of being a member of an outlaw biker gang. People just do shit when you ask them to."
Apparently, being the offspring of an outlaw biker president didn't afford me the same courtesy.
"Bastards."
"They are throwing in a liter of soda too," he added, rocking back on his heels, pleased with himself.
"I haven't had pizza in years," I admitted, not knowing why I wanted to do so. If I just didn't want the silence to grow awkward, or if I genuinely wanted to give him little parts of myself.
"I noticed you look a little thinner than usual," he agreed. "On a strict diet?"
"You could say that. I wasn't cooking my meals. Everything was very basic, very healthy, and very plain. I hadn't had cheese in like... eighteen months until I got back here."
"I have to ask because it is going to make me sick not knowing... were you being held by someone?"
"What? No. Of course not. Would a captor let me write letters?"
"True. Your mom was always so excited when they came in. She would bring them to the clubhouse to let your aunts and uncles read."
"Oh, God. There was never anything interesting in them. Definitely not enough to spread around."
"They were all she had. All they all had. They pored over them when they showed up." He paused at that, and I had a feeling he was trying to let that sink in, like he figured I needed time to process things. Which I did. "Can I ask you one more thing?"
"Well, you're buying me dinner. I think that means I owe you small talk."
"I want to say that you don't owe me anything, but if social obligation gets some information out of you, I'm not above utilizing it."
"Very pragmatic," I agreed.
"Why the flowers?"
"The flowers?" I repeated, lost.
"On the letters. There were always flowers drawn in the margins. Roses. Daffodils. Lilacs. Daisies." The favorite flowers of my aunts. I honestly didn't even remember doing that. "It just always seemed odd to me. You never liked flowers. It made you sad when they died."