Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Never able to resist a scrimmage, I add my two cents.
“It’s a great question, Manchester. I’m interested to hear your answer.”
The look he aims at me is loaded with quickly veiled malevolence. We haven’t known each other long, but it didn’t take long for us to dislike each other.
“What are you, Bishop?” he asks. “A feminist?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?” Manchester’s brows elevate.
“By definition, a feminist is someone who believes in social, political, and economic equality between the sexes.” I pause, giving him the condescending grin he gave Kerris a few moments ago. “Surely any reasonable person in this millennia, in this hemisphere, certainly at this table, would be a feminist.”
Harold clears his throat, the “shut your damn mouth” signal we’ve worked out between us. He thinks Manchester could be an ally. I don’t believe in keeping my enemies that close.
Sofie stands up without another word, drawing questioning eyes from everyone at the table.
“Powder room.” Her voice comes out strong, but I’m close enough to see the mad pulse thumping at her throat. “I’ll be…I’ll be back.”
When Harold and I were last in Kenya, we went on safari and saw a ravenous lion pursuing an antelope. There had been no hope of safety for the beast. The kill, inevitable and savage. The lion, a beautiful predator, greedily devoured the prey before our eyes, not even acknowledging his rapt voyeurs. As I watch the slim, vibrant line of Sofie’s body fleeing the room, I have no idea why, but I feel that same guilt. Like I’d stood by and watched something awful without raising my hand or voice to help.
CHAPTER THREE
Sofie
I study my reflection in the bathroom mirror, but I don’t see a polished, poised woman with sleek hair, a pop of matte red lipstick, and lash extensions. Instead another girl, younger, with smudged lips, hair spilled around her shoulders, and angry, red welts at her wrists stares back at me. I hear her jagged inhales, the way her breaths drag over her quivering lips. The stench of her fear churns the dinner in my stomach, and nausea floods my mouth. I swore I’d exiled her for good. She was handled. She was dealt with, but now she’s back.
Weak bitch.
I thought I had gotten rid of her once and for all, but it only took him slithering back into my life to open the door for that weakling child to come out whimpering. I grit my teeth and close my eyes. When I open them, I am determined she will be gone.
I open my eyes and jump a little when I find Kerris’s amber-flecked gaze reflecting back to me in the mirror over my shoulder. The last time we were in a bathroom together, we weren’t exactly sharing lipstick and tampons. She’d told me that Walsh was hers and she had no plans of letting him go—ever. I hated her that night, but maybe I also respected her a little for the first time.
“We have to stop meeting this way, Kerris.” I tug at the plunging neckline of my dress. “Walsh sent you?”
Kerris leans against the wall by the door and bites her bottom lip before speaking.
“He was worried about you.” She clears her throat and a path for the next words. “He’s outside in the hall.”
I check my hair one last time.
“He has nothing to worry about.”
“You seemed…I don’t know, disturbed. Was it that Kyle guy?”
“Kyle Manchester does not disturb me.” I turn to face her, propping my backside against the marble counter. “Why would he? You can let Walsh know I’m fine.”
“Or you could come out and tell him yourself.” Kerris doesn’t look away from my steady, blank stare.
I’m just now realizing that what I took for timidity in Walsh’s little wife might be quiet strength. Our lives couldn’t have been more different. She spent her early years in foster homes, bounced around and abused. I was cultivated like a pearl, protected from harm and born to rule. She doesn’t know we may have more in common than she would assume. More in common than I want to share.
In the six years since I first met Kerris, a lot has changed for us both. I had so much to prove to the world, to myself, to my parents, most of the time I didn’t care who I trampled to prove it. With Kerris, looks like I tried, but didn’t trample her. There’s a confidence in her now that has little to do with the money that comes with Walsh, and a lot more to do with the way he loves her.
“Tell Walsh I’ll be out in a minute,” I tell her.
With a quick nod she turns to go, but I surprise myself by stopping her with, of all things, a compliment.
“That’s a fabulous necklace, by the way.”
With her hand on the door handle, Kerris goes stiff and looks at me over her shoulder like the Wicked Witch of the West just gave her a Christmas present. She must think my compliment might explode at her feet.