Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 117379 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117379 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
I even knew where he lived, so I could be sure to avoid him.
(Okay, so I’d done a little online stalking of my own by now. I still had his wallet, which I suppose I should’ve felt guilty over. Instead I used his credit card to order some really cute lingerie. I didn’t spend enough to bankrupt him, but it was enough to make him suffer a little. Oh, and I sprang for gift wrapping and overnight delivery, because why not? Just because I’d saved his life didn’t mean I’d forgiven him for what he’d done.)
Unfortunately, ordering presents for myself online was the closest I could get to real shopping, because Dad put me on lockdown. And if that weren’t bad enough, Painter had appointed himself as my own personal guardian angel while Dad was gone. I couldn’t believe I used to crush on that guy—now all I saw when he walked into a room was a vision of him screwing some skank on a bathroom counter. Liam had been right. I definitely deserved better. Despite my hostility, Painter insisted on driving me to work every morning and meeting me for lunch. Then he’d drive me home and hang out at the house, spending the night on the couch or in Kit’s old bedroom.
To call this awkward was one hell of an understatement.
Thus I took to spending a lot of time in my room. That’s where I was on Friday night, exactly one week from the day I’d met Hunter for the first time. I had my TV on and I was playing around online when a private message popped up.
LIAM: Hey Em
I blinked. I’d blocked his ass. How the hell did he get through?
LIAM: Are you there?
I considered the little flashing message alert. Should I answer? What would I say? Direct confrontation, I decided. Call him on his shit, because seeing his message didn’t send a little thrill through me at all. No thrills allowed.
ME: How did you contact me? I blocked you.
LIAM: Probably best not to give up all my secrets. How are you?
ME: I’m great. Nobody took naked pictures of me without my consent today.
LIAM: Guess I had that coming. You wearing any of those panties you bought with my card?
I giggled, then managed to cut it off. Didn’t need Painter bursting in to check on me. And why was I laughing, anyway? Still … I wish I’d seen Hunter’s face when he realized I was spending his money.
ME: Yes. I’m wearing a midnight blue pushup bra and matching thong, because I’m getting ready to go out on a date. I like my new man a lot because he doesn’t kidnap people.
LIAM: A date? Pretty sure you’re stuck at home tonight with Painter. Please tell me you aren’t dating him? Hate me all you want, but you really can do better.
My breath caught. How did he know Painter was here?
ME: Are you stalking me again?
LIAM: Just tonight. I need to talk to you. Promise—last time—then I’ll leave you alone. You saved my life. Let me share what I know so you can stop worrying. I know your dad hasn’t filled you in, but you deserve answers.
I stared at the screen. How fucking stupid did he think I was? I should turn off the computer. But I was also curious … After all, I’d betrayed my club for this asshole. Now I wanted to hear what he had to say.
ME: So talk.
LIAM: Not online. Can you come outside?
I froze again. Shit. He couldn’t be serious, could he? I glanced at my window, relieved to see that the shade was tightly closed. Someone outside might be able to see that my light was on, but they wouldn’t be able to see inside.
ME: Why would I be stupid enough to do that?
LIAM: Because you’re curious. Bring a gun if it makes you feel better. But come outside and talk to me—I promise it’s safe. Don’t let Painter follow you, though. Last thing we need is another standoff.
Like hell I’d talk to him. I closed my computer and set it on the bed, grabbing the TV remote. Of course I wasn’t going outside. That would be incredibly stupid. I reached down and rubbed my leg lightly over the still-healing gash. Despite all the blood, Skid’s bullet hadn’t really caused any real damage—just a flesh wound. But even flesh wounds hurt like a bitch. I wondered if Hunter had ever been shot, and had the sudden urge to march out there and demonstrate to him just how painful a graze from a bullet could be.
I had excellent aim.
I flipped through the channels, trying to find a distraction. There was nothing on, of course. Just some creepy reality show about a woman who thought she was a squirrel. Life with Cara, or some such shit. My phone buzzed. Another message from Hunter …