Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 128083 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128083 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
The grounds sparkled with lanterns and lights, music spilling from every window of the estate. Posey had had to work late, and Tatum was going to meet her in the garden. She rounded the house, the blare of the music dimming along with the lights as she stepped into the shadows. She saw him standing near her mother’s rosebushes, which were barely beginning to bud, and rushed toward him, her heart moving in tandem with her quickened steps. Tatum turned and saw her, his lips lifting. “Posey.”
She stopped in front of him and adjusted her glasses, uncertain about meeting his eyes. “Hello.”
“Hi. You look lovely, Posey.”
“Thank you. So do you.”
He was standing differently than he usually did. Stiffer. And he kept glancing around. “Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Yes. Of course. Everything’s fine. Do you want to go inside? Would you like to dance?”
“Yes. I’d very much like to dance.”
“Okay.” He took her hand. His was cold and clammy, but it was a chilly night, and it would be warm inside.
They walked across the grass, and as they got closer to the house, Tatum stopped, and so did Posey, looking up at him questioningly. “Are you nervous about dancing, Tatum?” she inquired. “I don’t know how to either. I read a book, though, and so I’m willing to try if you are.” Her father had encouraged her, and her father was the most brilliant man she knew.
He stared at her for a moment before his shoulders dropped, and he took her hand again and continued on. “Anton’s had a . . . more private dance floor set up downstairs,” Tatum said.
She looked ahead and saw the door that led to her father’s wine cellar. There wasn’t a lot of room down there, but . . . if Tatum said it was true, then it must be. A private dance floor would be better than the one in the ballroom. So many eyes. So many people who might laugh at her. Posey was used to being laughed at, but not in front of Tatum. “Okay.”
He led her down the stairs and through the door. Inside, the space was cool and dim, the scent of oak filling the air.
“Where’s the dance floor?” she asked. She didn’t even hear any music.
“It’s, ah, up ahead. Around the corner.”
They turned and turned again, the lights flickering slightly as they walked past row after row of bottles resting in racks. “Posey, listen—”
She heard the shuffling of feet behind her and whirled around to see her brother and six or seven other men she didn’t recognize. Her brother smiled. “Hi, Posey Pose.”
“Anton,” Tatum began. His voice trembled.
“Get out of here, Devore.”
Tatum’s eyes met Posey’s, and he closed them momentarily. “I’m sorry, Posey. My father and I have had a falling-out. I need the money. I hope . . . I’m sorry.” And then Tatum moved forward, the men parting to let him go as he hurried for the door.
Money? What money? Posey didn’t understand. Anton stepped back, but his friends moved forward, encircling her. “I’d like to leave now,” she said. But when she attempted to move between two of them, they pushed her shoulder so she stumbled back, and then the men behind her shoved her forward again as she bounced between them. “Tatum?” she called, her breath coming more quickly. But all she heard was the distant slam of a door.
One of the men leaned toward her, and she smelled the heavy scent of liquor on his breath. He trailed a finger over her breast, and she jerked away. He smiled. “Anton,” she said, leaning one way and then the other as she attempted to locate him. “Tell your friends to move aside.”
His laugh echoed from beyond, bouncing off the walls of the small space. They began moving closer, walking in a circle. “Ring around the rosy,” one of them said, slurring. Snickers. Laughter.
“A pocketful of Poseys,” another one sang, enunciating her name.
Posey whipped toward one and then the other. “What do you want? Leave me alone.”
“Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.” They descended on her like a pack, tearing her clothes and her skin, ripping into her body, one by one, over and over. Her screams drowned beneath them, and there was no chance of being heard over the boisterous party above. They smelled of alcohol and sweat and something else that Posey didn’t know how to identify but would never forget.
She lost consciousness, drifting, then yanked back into her agonized body. She coughed and sputtered as fiery liquid poured down her throat. She felt a cold breeze on her naked skin and heard the engine of a car. She moved with it, the motion causing her to vomit and choke and vomit again.
People were arguing, words flying this way and that. She couldn’t put them together. She only hurt.