Total pages in book: 198
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
He was hot as shit.
“Hi, Mr. Rhodes,” I called out.
“Hi,” he actually replied, those long legs eating up the distance inside.
I went to stand next to the crate. “Look what we found.”
He took his sunglasses off, and his gray eyes settled on me briefly, eyebrows shooting up just a little. “You should’ve waited,” he said, coming to a stop in front of the crate too and then bending over.
He stood up straight almost immediately, looked at me, and then crouched that time, setting the leg of his sunglasses inside of his shirt as he said, in a weird, strained voice that didn’t sound pissed off . . . just strange, “You picked him up?”
“Yeah, I think he’s on ’roids. He’s pretty heavy.”
Mr. Rhodes cleared his throat and hovered there before his head tipped up toward me. He asked very slowly, “With your bare hands?”
“Am brought me some of your leather gloves.”
He peeked into the crate again, staring in there for a long, long time. Actually, probably just a minute, but it felt a lot longer. He only said one thing in that same strange tone. “Aurora . . .”
“Am said we should wait, okay, but I didn’t want my friend here to run off and then wind up on the street and get run over. Or something else. Look how majestic he is. I couldn’t let him get hurt,” I rambled. “I didn’t know hawks got that big. Is that normal?”
He pressed his lips together. “They don’t.”
Why did he sound so strangled? “Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt him?”
He brought a big hand up to his face and smoothed it down from his forehead to his chin before he shook his head. His voice turned soft as his gaze moved back in my direction; he eyed my arms and face. “He didn’t hurt you?”
“Hurt me? No. He didn’t even seem to care. He was very polite. I told him we were going to help him, so maybe he could sense it.” I’d seen videos all the time of wild animals turning passive when they could sense someone was trying to help them.
It took me a moment to realize what was happening.
His shoulders started shaking. Then his chest. The next thing I knew, he started laughing.
Mr. Rhodes started laughing, and it was rough and sounded in a way like an engine struggling to come to life, all choked and harsh.
But I was way too disturbed to appreciate it because . . . because he was laughing at me. “What’s so funny?”
He could barely get the words out. “Angel . . . that’s not a hawk. It’s a golden eagle.”
It took him forever to stop laughing.
When he finally did, he just started cracking up all over again, these big belly laughs along with what I was sure were a couple of fresh tears his hands scrubbed away as he laughed.
I think I was too stunned to really appreciate that rough, unused sound.
But once he stopped laughing for the second time, he explained—wiping his eyes while he did—that he was going to take my friend to a licensed rehabilitation facility and he’d be back later. I blew my friend a kiss through the crate, and Mr. Rhodes started laughing all over again.
I didn’t think it was that funny. Hawks were brown. My friend was brown. It was an honest mistake.
Except for the fact that apparently, eagles were several times bigger than their smaller cousins.
I left to go into town then, buying some gifts for my family before circling back to the grocery store. By the time I got home, the Parks and Wildlife truck was back. Most importantly though, there was a long ladder propped against the side of the garage apartment, and at the very top rung was a big man holding a can in one hand and aiming it toward the seam between the roof and the siding.
I parked my car in its usual spot and hopped out, ignoring my bags in the back seat so I could see what was going on. Wandering toward the ladder, I called out, “Whatcha doing?”
Mr. Rhodes was about as high up as he could possibly reach, the arm holding the can extended about as far from the rest of his body as possible. “Filling holes.”
“Do you need help?”
He didn’t reply before he reached a little over to the side and apparently filled in another hole.
For bats.
He was filling in holes for the bats.
Since I hadn’t had another visitor, I’d forgotten all about him filling them in.
“I got one more and I’m done,” he said before scooting over just a little toward the side and filling in another. He tucked the can into the back band of his pants and climbed slowly down.
I watched his thighs and butt the whole time. I wasn’t proud of myself.