Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97418 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97418 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Fuck this.” I look around for my phone. I need to eat something. If I stay in this car any longer, I’ll start needing things better left locked up. Trying to calm my self-destructive nature, I breathe in and out. I’m here to get revenge. After I do that, and we’ve counted the bodies, then I guess it’s up to the universe to decide my fate. My mouth waters. I pat my pocket, making sure I have my cigarettes. This war I’m bringing rages inside my head along with all the other regrets. It might be messy, but I’m not dying until the piece of shit who killed my child is lying in a pool of his own blood. I will show no mercy.
Swinging the door open on the Ferrari, the smell of orange blossoms permeates the air of the warm summer night. I slip off my suit jacket and tie, tossing them both on the passenger seat, then press the remote to lock the doors. What the hell am I doing here? Flashes of her stunning face bounce through my head like a movie on fast-forward. She was forbidden, with lips tasting like sweet honey, her body almost fragile in my arms. Fuck, I wanted her. She was happy and smart and beautiful in a way I had never seen. I wanted that goodness in my life. Like she could rub some of that magic onto me. Growing up in the Disciples is a different way of life and not something most children have. Back then, I still had hope. That all died the moment I left her that day.
I stop at the door and look inside. I don’t see anyone but a tall skinny kid busing tables. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my cigarettes and light one up. Inhaling, I give in to my pain, my grief. It makes me stronger and I need it. When I close my eyes, all of it flows over me—a time better left buried. I can still hear the ringtone I had for Debbie’s number. It rang nonstop. I was too young to understand her fragile and unstable condition. Her ups and downs frustrated me. The signs were there had I only known. The nicotine burns its way down my esophagus as I justify that we weren’t together anymore. Why couldn’t she let me go?
…The phone won’t stop ringing. Fucking Debbie. Why can’t she just be a mom, be normal? I bet Charlie would be a good mom. I stare down at the most innocent and beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I’m fucking done with crazy-ass girls. If only I had wrapped my dick up like everyone told me to. Debbie’s paranoid behavior has reached an all-time high and I’m done. I want my daughter. That’s it. This girl with inky dark hair and golden eyes is my future.
The door to the diner opens and out walk a couple of teenagers carrying their skateboards, bringing me back to the present. Looking around for a proper place to stub out my cancer stick, a bad feeling comes over me. I shouldn’t go in there. I’m wired and my blood is pumping. This is when I tend to do drugs. If I’m not doing drugs, I fuck, and I can fuck for days when I get jacked up like this. I should have stuck around the clubhouse and had one of the club sluts blow me. I’ll eat and go back. After all, I might as well move back in. Blade will be pissed having to kick a prospect out of a room, but screw that. I’ve earned my stripes and then some. Again, the door opens. I reach to hold it as an older woman with graying hair steps out and I step in.
CHARLIE
“Tom.” I balance my right leg on the end of a Budweiser keg and stretch. “You’re not hearing me. We didn’t get the shipment today. So, you need to figure out who got all thirty bags of our potatoes and get them here tomorrow morning.”
I’m already in a shit mood today. Not for any other reason than I’m tired and my feet hurt. I’ve been on them since 6:00 a.m., and it’s been one small thing after another.
From the sound of it, Tom, our produce director, is tapping away on his computer. This is the second order that’s been screwed up in the last month. I’m usually good about this stuff, but lunch was packed and we ran out of potatoes. So, yes, I’m sick of Tom.
My mom breezes past me, her perfume smelling like roses. I turn to see her sneak into the office. Tom is kind of stuttering as he tries to make excuses, still unable to locate my potatoes.
I have to cut him off or he’ll never stop. “Just fix it, please.”