Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
I spread my legs to take pressure off my half-hard cock and try to think of something else, because this is not the right time for pleasure.
Eli doesn’t seem to have anywhere to go, and I’ve been shadowing him since yesterday. It’s a miracle no one’s recognized him yet, but if that happens, I’ll be there to protect him, like I already did during that first dash from the murder scene. It’s the least I can do for someone who put an end to my service.
It’s regretful I didn’t get to be at Arthur Sullivan’s side when he died. The smell of his blood would have been rich with adrenaline and cortisol, but I’ve seen it happen, and that's all the closure I require. I’m no longer on his leash, but after years with the invisible chain around my neck, I can’t help but feel attached to the one who freed me. Especially when he’s so in need of my help.
Running out of the gala, he was like a drunken rabbit pursued by a pack of proficient hounds. He would have ended up torn apart if it wasn’t for my intervention with the giant tree. When you save someone’s life, it’s a special kind of bond that develops. You’ve invested. You can’t let go.
I don’t know what to do about this sudden new attachment, but I am adrift without Sullivan, so I might as well go with it for now, admiring the frail, inexperienced killer who accomplished what I wasn’t able to despite my background as an assassin, bodyguard, and even torturer. Whatever Sullivan commanded, I did.
When the bus stops and Eli gets up, I do the same, lured by the aroma of his flesh. He needs gloves. His fingers are so slim and pale I can just about imagine their touch. I’d suck on each one with pleasure and warm them in my mouth. It’s not what I’m following him for, but I’m not one to push away intrusive thoughts when they’re of the tasty variety.
I’m not sure where he thinks he’s headed, but we’ve stopped in Nowhere, Oregon, and he’s been traveling north, so he might be hoping for an escape to Canada. In those shoes, he won’t make it without losing toes.
His hood is up when he walks fast down the street decorated with Christmas lights. It hides his steel-gray hair which is the perfect length for grabbing. Maybe he has some kind of accomplice in this town? I’ll find out sooner or later.
Instead of heading straight for whatever place he might have in mind, Eli stops in front of a bright shop window, and the television screen reflects its colors onto his pale face. His profile’s sharp, with a large yet narrow nose, and uneven lips. The top one is larger, and rather chewable. Mouths like that are addictive, and I know I’d get hooked if I ever got the chance for a taste.
As I drift closer, attempting to be one with the shadows, the reason for his interest becomes obvious. If he has any sense, he’ll have already discarded his phone, and it’s only now that he gets to catch a glimpse of the shit he’s in.
The cops have long identified him, scoured through all the evidence in his car, concluding the killer’s homeless, twenty-five, and the media even came up with a catchy name for Eli, dubbing him the ‘Festive Fugitive’.
I watch him stiffen, then blow warm air on those pale hands. I wouldn’t mind if he wanted to slide them under my sweater for warmth. But the moment the screen goes on to show a portrait of Sullivan, Eli walks off, his wrecked shoe slapping loudly with every step. I promised myself I’d watch from afar, make sure no one interferes with his escape. That seems like a reasonable thing to do for a man who ended Sullivan for me.
Only I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours either, so my mind is getting a little too dazed with fantasies of ‘what if?’. Eli had a snooze on the bus, but I couldn't allow myself the luxury of rest. He’s become my priority as soon as I understood what he’d done, and following him without revealing my presence is a struggle. He’s not dressed right for this snowy weather. He doesn’t seem to have any escape plans, and here I am, hoping he is not as clueless as he appears. At this rate, he’ll make some terrible blunder, and I’ll have to save the day.
Then, I’ll have to be close to him, tempted by his scent and the shape of his ass. I’ve seen its outline when he bent over, and if it were Friday and he—a stranger at the sauna, I’d have dived my face between those tempting globes long ago.
I understand what his goal is when I spot a food truck boasting about their seasonal roast turkey sandwiches. I can only hope he buys two, because he could use some protein in him. He should also take a third to go if he’s smart.