Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 105615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
What the hell was I supposed to do in that moment? The moment after I was almost raped? Did I run like hell into my building where I had a shitty deadbolt separating me from the rest of the world?
I suppose I should thank this man? Should I call the police?
Zoe would know what to do in a situation like this. I ached for my best friend, for her strong, comforting and safe presence.
The man in front of me made the decision for me, lifting a phone to his ear. Calling the police, that was good, I needed to report this. Beyond that, the bleeding man on the sidewalk had yet to move, so he needed an ambulance or a body bag.
Would this man get in trouble for killing him? It wasn’t exactly self-defense, was it? I’d have to call Yasmin and get her help on this. It was the least I could do to thank this guy.
“Didn’t get that far,” the man said into the phone.
I frowned. That was not the first thing you said to a 911 operator. Why wasn’t he informing them of the situation, requesting the police and an ambulance? Or maybe he’d already said that, and I missed it. Did I have a concussion?
He paused. “Breathing. Barely.”
I assumed he was talking about the man on the sidewalk. It should’ve been a good thing that he wasn’t dead. But it wasn’t to me, not in that moment. Something dark inside of me wanted to move forward, take the knife that had been pressed against my neck and stab him to death with it.
“We’ll be there in fifty. Maybe less, depending on traffic,” the man continued speaking. “Got it.” His eyes went to me as he hung up the phone. “You need to throw up?”
I blinked at him, processing his question. It was asked without much feeling or emotion, and he hadn’t even asked me if I was okay. Wasn’t that probably the first question you’d ask a woman after you found her in this situation?
After taking a deep breath, I found myself glad that he hadn’t asked if I was okay, that I didn’t have to answer that. Because I definitely was not okay. Nor did I need to throw up, thankfully.
“No,” I rasped, my voice still weak, full of holes.
He nodded once. “Car.” His head moved in the direction of the curb where a sleek, black car was parked down the street.
I looked from the car to him, figuring out his meaning. “You want me to get in a car with you? A stranger who just beat a man half to death? This is a ...” I trailed off, looking to the sidewalk instead of looking inside of myself. I couldn’t handle that. “This is a crime scene, I can’t leave it.” My voice was stronger now. Not much, but it was something.
“You don’t have to worry about that, you just need to get in the car.”
I straightened my spine, ready to square off with this man. “I’m not getting in a car with you. I have no fucking clue who you are.”
“You know who I am,” he replied smoothly.
I frowned, my memory clearer now that my heartbeat was returning to normal. Yes, I knew who he was. Karson, was that it? He was the man from Klutch, the one who had taken me to the elevator.
And now he was here. Saving me from being raped and demanding I get in his car.
“All I know is that you dragged me off a dance floor at a nightclub so your boss could propose a sexual arrangement with me even though it was the first time we’d met,” I snapped, folding my arms over my chest.
I hated how exposed I felt, there on the street, in the outfit that had been so comfortable this morning yet felt utterly despicable against my skin now. Even my own touch was sickening to me. I wanted my bed. I wanted Gilmore Girls. Wanted wine, cheap, pink, sweet. My pajamas, the silk, outrageously expensive set that made me feel like a million bucks.
But here I was on the street, wearing the outfit I was assaulted in, mere feet away from the man who did that and in the midst of an interaction with another man who wanted to get me into a car to take me to ...
Jay?
That must’ve been who he was on the phone with.
Something clicked.
“Have you been following me?” I demanded.
The man’s ice blue eyes flickered down the unusually quiet street. Yes, it was a Tuesday night. Yes, it was late. But it was L.A. New York got all the publicity as the city that never slept, but the City of Angels barely even needed a disco nap. So there should’ve been someone stumbling home from a cocktail night, a swanky party, Ubers speeding by. Instead, it was eerily quiet. It was just me and this man. In a standoff.