Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
It’s just a body.
Words leave me.
Time ceases to exist.
The brevity of life illuminates behind my closed eyes. I hear John telling me to hurry up while we sprint through the fields after Dad promised to mark our asses because we left the gate open and two of the cows got out. I can barely keep up because I’m giggling so much after John handed Dad a black marker to do the marking. My brother was full of life.
“Open your eyes,” Archer demands while yanking my jeans and panties down my legs.
I see the happy tears in Lynn’s eyes when she shows me her engagement ring. She promises to take good care of my “other half.” Lynn had the life I never dared to pursue. She had a husband who adored her. A son who was her best friend. A job. Friends. Happiness.
The cool wood presses to my back. This time, my heels land on the keys, making a harsh, unforgiving sound as the strings' vibration spreads beneath me.
“Open. Your. Eyes!” Archer’s unkind hand grips my jaw while his hips nudge my legs apart.
I open my eyes, pointing my empty gaze at the ceiling.
It’s just a body.
Archer can take every ounce of my flesh, chasing something he will never catch because I left the best of me with Jack. And he will protect it until his last breath.
I feel the embrace of Steven’s arms after John died. He made me feel genuinely needed for the first time in my life. I never wanted him to let go. And I never wanted to let him down. But I did. I let all of them down.
“You might enjoy it,” Archer says while his unconscionable fingers probe between my spread legs as my eyes drift shut again.
It’s just a body …
The first tear slides down my cheek, taking my pain with it. I just … let go.
“Why did you let me love you?”
“That’s my line.”
Jack loves me.
“Get up!”
I blink open my eyes, but everything’s blurry, and words are muffled because I’ve allowed myself to leave my body, if only for a moment.
“GET THE FUCK UP!” Archer repeats.
A sharp pain radiates from my wrist to my shoulder when he yanks my arm. I stumble to the ground on my hands and knees, naked from the waist down. When I lift my head, Slade’s figure comes into view. It’s all just a bad dream. Everything’s in slow motion. This is not real.
Archer starts to pull his pants up his legs. Jogging pants. When did he change out of his suit? I blink slowly. Wait … I … I think he showered so he could be clean when he forced himself onto me.
Smoke.
I smell smoke.
And as everything speeds up into real-time, I hear alarms blaring.
Then I see him.
It’s just my body …
I’m sorry.
Please forgive me.
I love you.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
JACKSON
Three shots. Three seconds.
Jackson spots the three armed men retreating from the house's perimeter as flames engulf half the roof. He drops to his knees and lifts his rifle, eye on the scope.
Blink.
Blink.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Pause …
No breath.
He lines up the crosshairs. Not even a minuscule movement.
One.
Crosshairs.
Two.
Crosshairs.
Three.
Then he runs toward the door, through the entry, left, right, another right, gun in one hand, other hand reaching for his knife.
“Stop,” he says to Slade when he sees him stalking toward Archer, gun pointed at his head.
Archer pulls up his pants, and Jackson's gaze shifts to the floor behind him. Francesca is next to a white piano on her hands and knees, missing clothes below her waist. Jackson tightens his grip on his knife and holsters his gun. Archer won’t die from a bullet. He won’t die quickly. And he won’t die with dignity.
Francesca blinks, and tears spill onto her cheeks.
“We have ten minutes tops,” Slade says, aiming his gun at Archer’s head.
“Where the fuck did you come from?” Archer asks Slade because Slade and Livy have been “dead” for nearly two years.
Slade doesn’t say anything because one of the rules is that once a target’s captured, there’s nothing left to say. Words waste time. Words can fuck with the mind. There’s a reason they tell people who are looking death in the eye to confess personal information. It humanizes them. And humans, by nature, aren’t meant to kill their own.
Jackson ignores everyone but Frankie. He pockets his knife, kneels before her, and helps her to her feet. It’s as if time stands still. He should be numb inside. That’s all he’s ever known when taking out a target. But tonight, he feels everything. As she stands on shaky legs, he dresses her.
“Jackson,” Slade says.
But he ignores him because he can only hear Chopin. And he can only see Frankie sitting at his piano with her fingers effortlessly flying over the keys, making something impossibly hard look utterly effortless. She has a mesmerizing, timeless grace.
After her underwear is in place, he patiently threads her feet through the legs of her jeans and pulls them up her shaky legs …