Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
“Are you drunk?”
That was funnier because he knew better. I’d been drunk once in all the time he’d known me, and that was because we had been celebrating putting a monster in jail forever without parole. The little boy had been so scared of his father, and had finally, after a year, come out of his shell and was trusting his new foster parents—who had since adopted him—when he had to testify. Another witness had overdosed, and they needed Jeremy, the lone child who had survived the night Russel Blevins slaughtered his family.
The little boy had been six at the time, had been seven when called upon, and he was terrified to face his biological father. I had gotten permission for the family dog, Heimdall, a Doberman pinscher, to go with Jeremy into court. They had court dogs who sat with kids, but Jeremy didn’t want one of those, he wanted his own dog who slept beside him every night. It had made all the difference in the world. The little boy was not afraid of his father with Heimdall’s head in his lap. The judge even complimented him on what a good boy his buddy was, and the smile on the little face did something to the jury. I saw it in their expressions, their revulsion and hatred for his father. They’d seen the carnage, seen too the horrific damage Blevins had inflicted on his family before the last time. To see the cutest little boy with big brown eyes appearing so much better, leaning over to whisper to his dog… If looks could kill, his father would have been dead where he sat. When the boy walked out of the courthouse later, hand in hand with his new father, I saw how hard his new mother was trying not to cry. Of course when I gave him a tissue, and he ran over to her and had her crouch down so he could dab at her eyes, that was it, we were all crying. Colton had to keep glancing up at the sky for some reason.
“What is with you?”
“Remember the Blevins case?”
Instant scowl. “That case is burned into my brain, are you kidding?”
“That was the one and only time I’ve been drunk, so no, sir, I am not, at this moment, under the influence of anything. I just realized I’m too tired to ever run from Gen Antonov again. You’re right. I won’t go anywhere.”
His flashing smile then. “I’m proud of you,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “That’s a very—”
“We will, however, tell them that you need security.”
“I don’t need any goddamn—oh,” he gasped because I’d leaped at him.
Arms around his neck, my body pressed tight against his, holding on for dear life. “I have too much to lose here,” I said into his ear, “and you know, of course, that begins and ends with you.”
I could feel him shaking, heard his breath catching as one hand cupped my nape, the other pressed to the small of my back.
“You’re stuck with me now, though,” I told him. “There’s no going back.”
“No,” he rasped, inhaling me. “No going back.”
His voice was odd, crackly, like he was unsure about something. I was about to ask if he was all right.
“You always smell like oranges,” he croaked out. “What is that about?”
“It’s neroli oil,” I reminded him, easing back, gazing up into his eyes. “You always ask me that same question.”
“I do?”
“Yes,” I said, letting go of him.
I noticed he was still holding me, and normally, with anyone else, there would have been panic. But not with him. Never with him.
From the very first moment when I walked into his office—the wrong place, as it happened, as I was supposed to be reporting to another ASA—I had looked at him and thought, He’s drowning. He needs me.
Walking over to his desk, I read his name off the plate I had to unearth from the paperwork covering it, realized I was in the wrong place, but pressed the button and answered his line anyway.
“You’ve reached ASA Colton Gates’s office,” I rushed out, pulling out my phone and typing as I listened. Once done, I promised that either Mr. Gates or his assistant would get back to them. I then did the same with the other six lines, taking notes as I did so.
Once it was blissfully quiet, I turned to him.
“Who the hell’re you?” he barked at me.
“I’m in the wrong office. I’m not your assistant. I thought I was. I’m not,” I clarified, searching for his cell phone on the desk of doom. “The girl I met in orientation is probably yours, and she seemed very nice.”
“What?”
“I’m in the wrong place,” I reiterated, speaking slower, as he was clearly having trouble parsing my words. “I’m sure the right person will be right along.”