back around.
“I'll do it,” I say.
“Excellent,” Manuel answers as though he knew what my reply would be.
He could not have. I am not transparent.
Manuel nods at his lackeys. They pivot on their heels, and start to leave the house.
I call out, “Manuel!”
He turns.
“I am not your friend.”
He chuckles darkly.
I watch him walk out of the front door and into the street where a black SUV waits to rush him to his next appointment of extortion.
I glance at my wristwatch.
Seventy-one hours, fifty-eight minutes and ten seconds.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Greta
“I'm trying really hard not to get excited here!” I squeal into the phone.
Gia sighs. “It's not like I'm Miss Maturity or something but let me insert myself here as the voice of reason.”
I groan, slapping my forehead. Reason makes me tired. Exhausted.
I'm lying on the hotel bed, thrilled to my toes to have a date with Mr. Yummy Dane tonight.
It's all business.
I'm so excited I can hardly stand myself.
“It's got to be Club Alpha, Gia. I swear, it's like this guy is made to order, Greta style.”
“Tell me more about him before you get your thong in a twist.”
“I don't wear a thong,” I say with a small euphoric giggle.
“Right, it's an expression, my giddy friend.”
“Well, I can wear heels, and he's still taller.”
“Okay, you have me there. You're an Amazon.”
“I'm actually Norwegian,” I huff.
I cross my legs at the knee and jiggle my foot, anxious to pick out a hot outfit.
“We've established this. Go on.”
“He's interesting to look at.”
“Uh-huh. Does that mean hot? Or, he has a good personality and abs—but he's a double bagger?”
“Gia!” I slap my bare feet on the bed.
“No! He's… I don't know, exotic, foreign…”
“A client,” she reminds me in a droll voice.
I smooth strands of hair out of my face. “Yes. There is that.”
“Listen, Greta. I thought you put Mr. Right as dark, non-Caucasian.”
A beat of silence thrums between us.
I twist the hem of my shirt. Memories flood my mind: being tied off to bedposts, the mattress a hard misery beneath me.
“Yes,” I reply in an agonized whisper.
Gia deciphers the one tightly squeezed syllable from halfway across the world.
“Don't you go there, Greta. Don't you dare . Breathe. Now.”
I suck in a lungful of air and release a breath that tastes stale and stifling.
I clench my eyes. “Gia,” I whisper.
“I am here. Listen to my voice, Greta.”
Hands.
Everywhere.
Four heads rise above me. My legs are spread. Searing pain like a hot poker ignites from my groin to my belly button.
Variations of blue and green irises, hidden behind identical masks, smile maliciously down at me—as they pump their evilness inside my body.
“Come back, Greta. It is not happening right now. It's the past.”
I breathe in harsh pants, shoving their hands away, killing them, hurting them like they hurt me.
My eyes burst open, and I sit up, stiff like a plank, in the middle of the bed.
The hotel room's calming ultra-modern environment comes into focus like the lens of a camera. The drape is parted, and a slit of the water beyond shimmers in the late afternoon
My heartbeat begins to slow.
“Greta, are you here with me?”
I know that voice. It saved me.
“Yes,” I answer.
“Good.” Her tone is no-nonsense, but the concern is threaded through her one-word response. “It's dangerous for you to revisit what happened too often. It doesn't grow you.”
Like a plant.
I shiver a little, though the room is seventy-three degrees. “I know.
Maybe I can't go out with him.” I clench the rolled-down bed linen in a tight fist.
“You can—you will . I just… I caution you. It might be coincidence.” Gia laughs. “I mean, you're not such an ugly duck a man might not want to take you out.”
I smile a little.
“It's safe, Greta. He's a legitimate client. There's no reason you can't doll yourself up, and show him the newest swatches by
“I'll do it,” I say.
“Excellent,” Manuel answers as though he knew what my reply would be.
He could not have. I am not transparent.
Manuel nods at his lackeys. They pivot on their heels, and start to leave the house.
I call out, “Manuel!”
He turns.
“I am not your friend.”
He chuckles darkly.
I watch him walk out of the front door and into the street where a black SUV waits to rush him to his next appointment of extortion.
I glance at my wristwatch.
Seventy-one hours, fifty-eight minutes and ten seconds.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Greta
“I'm trying really hard not to get excited here!” I squeal into the phone.
Gia sighs. “It's not like I'm Miss Maturity or something but let me insert myself here as the voice of reason.”
I groan, slapping my forehead. Reason makes me tired. Exhausted.
I'm lying on the hotel bed, thrilled to my toes to have a date with Mr. Yummy Dane tonight.
It's all business.
I'm so excited I can hardly stand myself.
“It's got to be Club Alpha, Gia. I swear, it's like this guy is made to order, Greta style.”
“Tell me more about him before you get your thong in a twist.”
“I don't wear a thong,” I say with a small euphoric giggle.
“Right, it's an expression, my giddy friend.”
“Well, I can wear heels, and he's still taller.”
“Okay, you have me there. You're an Amazon.”
“I'm actually Norwegian,” I huff.
I cross my legs at the knee and jiggle my foot, anxious to pick out a hot outfit.
“We've established this. Go on.”
“He's interesting to look at.”
“Uh-huh. Does that mean hot? Or, he has a good personality and abs—but he's a double bagger?”
“Gia!” I slap my bare feet on the bed.
“No! He's… I don't know, exotic, foreign…”
“A client,” she reminds me in a droll voice.
I smooth strands of hair out of my face. “Yes. There is that.”
“Listen, Greta. I thought you put Mr. Right as dark, non-Caucasian.”
A beat of silence thrums between us.
I twist the hem of my shirt. Memories flood my mind: being tied off to bedposts, the mattress a hard misery beneath me.
“Yes,” I reply in an agonized whisper.
Gia deciphers the one tightly squeezed syllable from halfway across the world.
“Don't you go there, Greta. Don't you dare . Breathe. Now.”
I suck in a lungful of air and release a breath that tastes stale and stifling.
I clench my eyes. “Gia,” I whisper.
“I am here. Listen to my voice, Greta.”
Hands.
Everywhere.
Four heads rise above me. My legs are spread. Searing pain like a hot poker ignites from my groin to my belly button.
Variations of blue and green irises, hidden behind identical masks, smile maliciously down at me—as they pump their evilness inside my body.
“Come back, Greta. It is not happening right now. It's the past.”
I breathe in harsh pants, shoving their hands away, killing them, hurting them like they hurt me.
My eyes burst open, and I sit up, stiff like a plank, in the middle of the bed.
The hotel room's calming ultra-modern environment comes into focus like the lens of a camera. The drape is parted, and a slit of the water beyond shimmers in the late afternoon
My heartbeat begins to slow.
“Greta, are you here with me?”
I know that voice. It saved me.
“Yes,” I answer.
“Good.” Her tone is no-nonsense, but the concern is threaded through her one-word response. “It's dangerous for you to revisit what happened too often. It doesn't grow you.”
Like a plant.
I shiver a little, though the room is seventy-three degrees. “I know.
Maybe I can't go out with him.” I clench the rolled-down bed linen in a tight fist.
“You can—you will . I just… I caution you. It might be coincidence.” Gia laughs. “I mean, you're not such an ugly duck a man might not want to take you out.”
I smile a little.
“It's safe, Greta. He's a legitimate client. There's no reason you can't doll yourself up, and show him the newest swatches by
Similar Books
