Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
The bags under his eyes tell me that I'm the only one who slept well last night.
"You didn't sleep well," I observe.
"I never do," he confesses.
"Are you always up this early?" I ask.
"Usually earlier," he says with what some might consider a smile.
The man told me he liked my laugh, but I can't recall a moment when I've heard one from him. I know he takes his job very seriously, but there has to be time for joy in a person's life.
I shake my head, the idea seeming ludicrous. When do I ever have joy? I haven't even made an effort to get the plant I mentioned last week back in the group at Juniper House.
"I made coffee," he says.
"Thank you," I tell him, walking up and grabbing the travel mug from the cabinet.
I realize that when my shoulder brushes his, at some point, I stopped seeing him as someone I should avoid and started to see him as someone I could fully trust.
He has never done anything that would make me think he'd hurt me or try to manipulate me in some way to get what he wants.
I don't know if all the Cerberus men are like him, but I get the feeling, with their tasks of keeping women safe, that there's a very real chance that they are.
I had no idea men like this existed in the real world, that there were men who dedicated their entire lives to protecting people.
It's a sad realization that nice men who don't hurt women seem to be less normal. I know my job at the women's shelter puts me right in the middle of people who hurt people and women who are hurt, but even strangers seem less courteous than they could be.
Common decency seems to be a thing of the past, something long gone from generations before my time.
I pour my coffee, adding a little sugar and missing the days of high-calorie creamer. I isolate myself so much that, other than bodyweight exercises, I don't have many means of staying in shape. A nice long run would probably work wonders for my mental health, but I could never turn off the voice that screams that I'm unsafe outside, where just anyone can drive by and hurt me.
"Did you sleep well?" he asks as I lift my cup to my lips.
"I did," I tell him without going into detail.
I don't want to sound like I'm bragging when it's clear he had a rough night.
I blow the top of my coffee, trying to cool it off.
"That's good," he says, his eyes running the length of me before locking on my face. I don't know if he's trying to determine whether I'm lying.
I give him a soft smile before blowing on my coffee again.
I don't mind his eyes on me, and honestly, knowing I have all of his attention in this moment makes my body come alive. It's a very unfamiliar feeling, and I don't know what to do with the attention.
"Are you about ready to head out?" I ask, hating the idea that if he keeps watching me as closely as he is, he'll find that I'm lacking something he expects me to have.
"Ready when you are," he says, but there seems to be a hesitation in his movement toward the front door.
"What's wrong?" I ask, wondering if something happened last night while I was asleep.
A tremble of fear begins inside of me, and I know it's my body's natural reaction. My mind always turns to the bad rather than thinking that anything good can happen in my life.
"Is there any chance you'd want to skip the fundraiser?"
I watch his eyes for a second.
"Is there something you're not telling me?"
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
"Kincaid told you about Whitmore," he says, even though he wasn't in that meeting.
"He did," I say.
"We don't know that anything can happen today, but we do know there's a chance."
"So nothing has happened directly?"
"Other than the flower delivery and him skipping town after getting released from parole?" he says, as if that information alone should keep me inside for the foreseeable future.
"Yes," I say, standing a little taller.
I don't know if the confidence they give me by being around to keep me safe is smart, but it's the first time in a long time that I've felt like I have someone on my side, and I want to live in it for a little while.
He looks away, and that voice grows louder in my mind, the one telling me that my first instinct to stay behind at the shelter rather than attend the event in the park is the one I should listen to.
"The tire last night," he begins.
"It's not the first flat that I've had," I interrupt.
"The air was released. There was no puncture," he says.