Read Like Glass We Break (Glass #2) Online
Authors: Kari Fisher
Like Glass We Break (Glass #2)
Like Glass We Break
The Glass Series, Book Two
Kari Fisher
Like Glass We Break
Copyright © 2015 by Kari Fisher.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: December 2015
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-416-5
ISBN-10: 1-68058-416-2
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
Thank you to everyone who made me promise to keep writing and to never give up on my dream. To Mom and Dad, Auntie Bev and Bernice, and Grandma for encouraging me after the publication of my first novel, attending all of my book signings, and not making fun of me when I was on the news. To Robyn and Michelle, for being my best friends: I love you both. To Jeff for pushing me when I needed to be pushed, and when I didn’t. To Trevor for encouraging my crazy. To Michel, for just always being around no matter what. Michelle, Hally, Bill, and the entire Limitless family: working with all of you has been so much fun. To my little kitty, Velcro: thank you for keeping my lap warm while I wrote this book; I will forever miss you. To Christian, who supports me no matter how nuts I am. Also, to my little Milena: without you, I would have finished this book much sooner, but my life would not be as much fun.
Table of Contents
Scott
Scott wishes the world would stop rotating for a minute so he could just stand here and feel what it is like to be in complete silence, making sure his feet are actually on the ground, although gravity would release its pull on him and let him float away. Right now he feels like he’s floating away, anyhow. The feeling of losing control and drifting into darkness is almost a relief. It feels as though a giant weight has been lifted from his shoulders.
A car flies by, narrowly missing him. He blinks. It is pouring rain and the night is dark. He blinks again. His vision is blurry, and he’s uncertain if it’s because of the poor weather, or his extreme exhaustion. He decides he should get out of the middle of the road before he’s hit by the next car.
Walking is a chore. He puts each foot in front of the other until he’s standing at the end of the walkway to the house. The house is an older, two story building with a grey brick exterior. It has been quite the day and he’s excited to finally crawl into bed after a much deserved glass of scotch—if he even has any—he can’t remember if he finished it off or not. Work has been hell lately. His social life no longer exists. Cora, the last woman he took out on a date, proceeded to avoid all of his phone calls after that night. He’s not sure if it was something he said. She led him to believe she had a great time. She even invited him back to her place for a drink. She flirted, touched his leg, and kissed him seductively, but never asked him in. Then she abruptly asked him to take a cab home.
He barely makes it up the walkway without passing out, his feet heavy on the concrete lightly dusted with snow. Once inside, he almost doesn’t have the energy to pour a glass of scotch without ice, but he musters what little he has left after changing into his pajamas—which means basically stripping down to boxers and a plain white t-shirt—and he washes out the other crystal scotch glass he left dirty in the kitchen sink last night. The scotch tastes like class—burnt leather, incredibly delicious. He doesn’t bother brushing his teeth. Instead, he stands in front of the small mirror over the bathroom sink for a minute as he mentally prepares himself for sleep. He looks good shirtless. He has abs that he didn’t have to work for, thanks to his high metabolism. He’ll need to shave in the morning. His five o’clock shadow has become more like a ten o’clock shadow. He could probably use a haircut soon too. His dark hair is shaggy. He feels like he should be serving hummus with taco chips. Perhaps he’ll find a new hairdresser and give his social life another shot. They’ll make small talk while she cuts his hair and he’ll ask her out on a date afterwards. His almost-seventy-year-old barber is bound to retire soon anyway.
It’s almost midnight and he reminds himself that he has to work in the morning. It feels like he never even sees the sun anymore. He arrives at work before it rises and leaves after dark. He’s not exactly upset by this—more like just used to it now. He tolerates it. On the rare occasion that he has a day off, which isn’t often lately, he spends his days catching up on the sleep that he doesn’t get during the rest of the week. Even when he’s asleep, he’s thinking about work. Numbers fill his head. He cannot escape the four white walls and the prestigious accounting firm that he works for—or more like slaves for.
Growing up, he wanted to be a firefighter or a paramedic. He wanted to help people when they were in distress, or maybe he just wanted to watch as their house was swallowed by angry flames. While filling out his college applications after high school, he remembers his mother nagging about how he needed to actually do something productive with his life. He opened his course book to the first page, and picked the first thing on the list. He’s an accountant now.
He opens the suitcase he packed a few nights ago, expecting to attend a last minute conference sometime this week that ended up falling through. He carefully picks out tomorrow’s suit and tie and lays it out on the chair beside his bed. He has a meeting in the afternoon and needs to be sure he wears a white shirt in hopes that his sweat marks won’t show by that time. It never fails—halfway through the day, between the stress and the fluorescent lights, he looks like a disheveled body-builder fresh out of a workout. By then, he has loosened his tie and beads of sweat drip down his forehead. He is an unapproachable mess. At this point, even his bosses know not to talk to him because his reply to their “Why didn’t you have your reports ready by end of day yesterday?” will be “Because fuck you, Charles, that’s why.”
The scotch is still burning the back of his throat. He’s staring at the ceiling. Despite being completely exhausted, he’s unable to fall asleep immediately. This is unfortunate because it leaves him alone with his thoughts and that is somewhere he doesn’t want to be right now.
He turns on the TV, flipping through various channels and then stops at the news. Some guy in a metal band overdosed. A plane crashed. A bunch of local people are running a marathon to cure a disease he cannot pronounce. Women are missing. Election results have been confirmed.
He turns off the TV.
Silence.
Perhaps the world has stopped.
He hears a noise. It’s probably just a raccoon getting into the garbage again. It happened last night too. He decides to investigate, since he’s unable to sleep anyway. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and reaches for the light but he can’t find the switch. He decides to take his chances and stumbles out of bed in the dark. He flips on the hallway light and makes his way down the stairs. He walks through the kitchen and glances out the window. The garbage can is untouched and there is no raccoon tonight. He hears the noise again. It’s not coming from outside. He stands and listens carefully.
There it is again.
It’s coming from the basement.
He makes his way down the hallway and panics for a second when he sees that the basement door is ajar. He remembers he left it like that last week when he accidentally locked himself out of the basement and couldn’t find the key. He doesn’t think the previous owners provided him with it when they moved out, or they did and he just misplaced it. He ended up having to pry the door open with a crowbar and he hasn’t had a chance to repair it yet.
He pushes the door open and slowly walks down the stairs. He feels like he’s in some kind of a horror movie, but he’s a guy—nothing is supposed to scare him. Once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he searches for the string on the light fixture above his head. He knows it’s there. He installed it himself. He’s relieved when he feels it between his fingers, and he gives it a gentle tug.
The light turns on, but flickers and is dim.
He sees something in the corner of the basement but without his glasses on, it’s almost impossible for him to make out what it is from this distance, so he walks over. It moves. What the—
“Help.” A faint, shaky voice. A woman’s voice. A familiar woman.
“Cora?” he yells. He takes three quick steps toward her and the light flickers again. He cannot see her for a second, but then he’s able to see her face clearly. She’s curled up on the cement floor, wearing only a bra and panties. She is bruised and cut, and a closer look reveals that both her hands and feet are tied tight with rope, most likely cutting into her skin. “Cora, what the hell?”
“Help.” Cora manages to speak, though it comes out as a whisper. “Scott, help me.”
“I thought I told you to shut up,” Scott replies sternly.
“Please, I need help—” she begs.
“Shut up, Cora,” he instructs.
They never listen. They just never ever listen.
He’s not quite sure how she managed to get the silk scarf off he had gagged her with. Perhaps he should have used something a bit better, but this is her house and it was within arm’s reach when he had walked her home last week. She had invited him into her entry way to say goodnight because it was pouring rain outside. He had stood there, soaking wet, waiting for her to invite him in for the glass of expensive scotch she had told him about earlier. Apparently she wasn’t actually planning on sharing, because she turned her face when he leaned in to kiss her, and he ended up kissing her cheek instead.
What a bitch.
She led him on all night, giggling about having drinks together sometime, and now she wasn’t even going to offer him one.
He had snapped. Years of girls using him as a meal ticket had built up a frustration in him that needed to be released.
Why did I even pay for her meal? Stupid girl.
He should have known he wasn’t her type. He had observed her for months before he finally asked her out. She was hesitant but he persisted and she finally gave in, agreeing to accompany him to dinner at one of the most famous restaurants in town.
He’s certain that he’s much better looking than the last guy she dated—that guy was a nerd. He hadn’t even been that great in bed. Scott saw the way she looked at him while he undressed. She was unimpressed. Scott knew he could have made her so much happier, if she had given him a chance.
“Scott!” she squeaks, begging him to pay attention to her.
It’s clear that she is dying. She’s pale and weak. She has lost a significant amount of blood over the last six days, bleeding out slowly from the stab wound in her leg that he had to subdue her with when she attempted to push him away so she could run up the stairs. Where was she going to go? Her bedroom? Was she going to lock the door? Obviously that wouldn’t stop Scott, at six feet five inches tall. Surely her thin wood door wouldn’t be a problem, but it didn’t even get to that point. He overpowered her before she could even get away a first time, grabbing her leg and pulling her back down the stairs toward him.
“Cora, you need to be quiet. Would you like some water?”
She turns her head and refuses to sip the water he has so graciously offered her every night when he comes to sleep at her place. He’s been trying to care for her and she is pushing him away.
Stupid girl. Stupid girl. Why doesn’t she just accept my help?
“Scott, please—”
“Shhhh, go to sleep,” he whispers. He touches her cheek and she is startled. He ties the scarf tighter around her face this time.
He actually considers leaving the light on for her tonight, but then he decides against it. She can’t sleep with the light on, and she needs her beauty sleep, like he needs his.
He is back in bed and this time he feels like he can rest. He inhales; the sheets smell like Cora.
He drifts off to sleep.