Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
I want to touch you.
I untie your hair first and let the silky strands fall down your back. And it is silky, isn’t it, your hair. It’s soft and rich and so long that it teases your lower back. I imagine you sucking in a breath at this. You probably weren’t expecting me to. But maybe you should have. I’m a felon doing time; following the rules isn’t how I got behind bars. After eight years of my life in this hard place, I’m thirsty for something soft.
I’m thirsty to run my fingers—that you already guessed are scarred and rough—through the soft and smooth mass of your hair. Then I move those strands to the side and expose the nape of your neck. It’s the color of the moon that I sometimes see through the barred window of my cell. But I know just by looking at it that instead of it being cool, I’m going to find your skin all warm and cozy, probably from all the sunlight streaming in through that window of yours. And well, you already know my last day on the outside, the sun was hiding, so now I crave it like I’ve never craved anything before.
I touch that fragile spot on your neck, all soft and warm.
I’m rubbing my finger up and down, back and forth, in circles, trying to soak up the feel of you. Trying to memorize it just like I memorize your words so I can make it last for a whole week before I get to touch you again. So when I touch my own fingertips, instead of rough skin, I feel your phantom softness.
But maybe you don’t want me to. Maybe you don’t want a roughened con touching you with his rougher fingers.
But then again, I warned you, didn’t I?
Bo
PS: Unlike you, I’m not much for reading but I read your paper and if your professor gives you anything less than a B, he’s a moron. But maybe I don’t have to tell you any more. You already know how all professors are fucking morons, and you should stay away from them.
I NEED TO steal his knife.
That’s the only way. I need a weapon so I can get away from him—because no matter his vow, I am going to get away from him—and his knife is my best shot. All I need is an opportunity.
It’s just that I’m so freaking tired right now. I’m the kind of tired that I’ve never been in my life, and it’s all his fault. Because like everything else, he forced me to do it. He forced me to ride a horse.
With him on it.
Apparently, the reason we were at the ranch was because my husband needed a horse so we could ride on it and go home.
That’s what he said.
Those were his exact words, We’re going home, when he, despite my loud protests, picked me up and deposited me on the saddle. And then before I could ask any other questions or just take a breath, he pulled on the reins and made a clucking sound with his mouth and took off at a gallop that I swear to God caused him to bark out a laugh. Like he was finally doing something he’d been dying to do.
And I guess he was.
Eight years is a long time to stay away from something you love so much. And I’m not going to lie, I finally understand what the fuss is all about. Why people love riding so much. I think it’s the freedom. The wind in your hair; the sun on your back. It’s the fact that it feels like flying. Like throwing your hands up and just soaking up the world. The peace. The nature.
The adventure.
Gosh, is that what it feels like, being on an adventure? Like the blood is rushing in your veins and the adrenaline is going. Like you’re flying, and even if you crash and burn, it’ll be worth it. At one point, I wanted to turn around and tell him that. It would be the kind of thing I’d tell Bo, but then I realized—for the thousandth time—he isn’t Bo. He never was; he never will be. So all I could do was hold on and let him have his moment.
Now here we are, hours later, still riding. At a more sedate pace, however. But still through the woods. I take in the canopy of branches and leaves above me. There are bits and pieces of sunlight streaming through the gaps, and I try to figure out what time it is. I have no clue if it’s early afternoon or late, or how far away we are from Black Rock. I guess I fell asleep and now I’m awake, and everything hurts.
My back. My thighs. The place between my thighs.