Page 148 of Love Undiscovered
I watch, in horror, as she pulls a gun from under the hand on her lap and levels it on the desk, pointed at me.
Oh fuck.
“Sit.”
I comply, zipping my skirt back up as I do.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks, waving the gun in my direction.
“You plan to kill me?”
“Kill. Seriously fuck up. Put a bunch of holes into. Maim for life. Yes.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because, Mimi, I can.”
“That’s not really a reason, Helen.”
She shrugs her shoulders.
“I can’t be worth going to jail over.”
“Oh, I’m not going to jail.”
“What makes you think you can shoot, maim, or kill me and not go to jail?” I ask.
She stands up and starts walking toward me, the gun flailing a bit in her hand, her wrist limp. I don’t like how her hand keeps changing direction, yet her finger remains on the trigger.
“I’m not worried about that. Chance will make sure the charges don’t stick.”
“Is that what you think? That Chance will get you out of this? Are you sure about that?”
She looks at me, her eyes defiant, but her countenance unsure. She doesn’t answer. I use that to my advantage.
“There is no way that is happening, Helen. He’ll be the first one to lock your crazy ass up.”
She smirks. “He won’t care. You broke up.”
I choose not to confirm or deny that. And instead, continue to try and stare her down.
She continues, “You broke up because of the bet.”
“How’d you—”
“Know about the bet? Maybe Chance told me.”
I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. Why would Chance tell her about the bet?
And which bet did he tell her about? His or mine? I didn’t think they were even speaking to one another. Are they talking now? It’s been two fucking days! Why would he go to her? Tell her? What happened is personal. It’s embarrassing. Well, only for me. How dare he?
Asshole.
Not that he is my concern any longer, because he’s not. And, she’s right, we broke up because of the fucking bet. His fucking bet. So, what he does on his time is his business. And who he talks to or spends time with is his business. If he wants to go back to a crazy whore-bag that’s his problem.
Except when it becomes my business because that same crazy whore-bag is holding me hostage in my own hotel room. She starts pacing in the small space between the end of the bed and the writing desk.
