Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Okay, that hurt.
Then I pulled in a breath through my nose, decided he was only saying that to get me to leave, which wasn’t going to work, and repeated, “You are my friend. And you don’t get to back out of this now. I won’t let you. Hell, you started it.”
His eyes got hard. “I started what?”
“You came to me.” I stabbed at my chest. “You saw me crying and came to me. You offered your help. You bought my fucking tacos. So you started it. We’re friends now. And you don’t get to decide otherwise. It’s done.”
I was certain, if we had spectators, they would find this standoff amusing, considering the size difference between Sean and me.
I, however, wasn’t finding any of this amusing. Neither was he.
Sean looked all over my face. He was breathing loud and heavy, his chest was rising with slow, thick breaths. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
“I’m a hair stylist,” I answered, because it was true and, well, if he needed examples how this was supposed to play out, I’d give him some. “Who also waitresses to cover bills while she starts her own business,” I continued. “I’m twenty-three. I love Taco Bell and would totally have them cater my wedding. I also love Frank’s Pizza because of their crust, and Duck Donuts because they’re just fucking delicious all around. I have one tattoo. I’ve never smoked a day in my life. I love being on the back of a bike and miss it terribly. I’m scared about a lot of things, but the big ones being I’ll lose my dad and I’ll fail at my business. I’m small, but I’m loud. I don’t like being told what to do, unless I also want to do those things. I’m bull-headed. I love singing in my car. The beach makes me happy. And I’m good at judging a person’s character. I’ve judged yours. I like it. Now, who are you?”
Sean stared at me, nostrils flaring.
“Well?”
“You’ve judged my character?” he asked.
I nodded firmly.
“You like it?”
“Yep.”
He bent closer, putting his face an inch away from mine, and grated, “That’s why you don’t know shit. You wanna know about me? You want facts? I’ve been to prison. Not jail. Fuckin’ prison. Been to jail too. A lot. Got busted on assault, breaking and entering, trespassing, theft. Everything I had growing up, I stole from other people. I stole food. I stole clothes. I stole shit I wanted and wouldn’t ever fuckin’ get unless I did steal it. Stole cars. Found out I could get money for certain cars, and then stole a lot of fuckin’ cars to get that money. I’ve beaten the shit outta people for being better than me, for havin’ what I don’t, as payback, and for no fuckin’ reason. How you like that character now? Huh? I’m a twenty-nine-year-old loser. Those enough facts for you? No? How ’bout this—I got kids. Two girls. Four and five years old. Little. Fuckin’ impressionable. The last time they saw me, I was getting hauled off to jail, right in front of them. I can still hear them screamin’ for me ’cause they were scared, and I was the reason for it. Me. I’m a fuckup. Nothin’ to nobody. That’s who I am.”
My heart was racing so fast, I could feel its pace throughout my entire body.
“That’s not true,” I whispered.
“No? Why? You think buying you six-dollar tacos and driving your brothers around makes me what, a fuckin’ good Samaritan? You like the person I am?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t,” he growled.
My eyes jumped between his.
There was so much going on inside my head. Too much. The first thing being holy shit, Sean has kids. He’s a father. A father who’d done some bad stuff in his life, yes, but…
“Going off someone’s actions isn’t the best judge of character sometimes,” I told him, verbalizing my next thought.
His eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Sometimes people do things because they have to, or for other reasons that are justifiable. If we were to list things we’ve done in the past and judge each other based solely on those things, you’d think badly of me.”
He leaned back, brought his arms across his chest and cocked his head. “Like what?”
“Well,”—I licked my lips, thinking fast since I wasn’t at all prepared for this part of the presentation—“I’ve smoked weed,” I blurted out.
He stared at me. “Said you never smoked a day in your life.”
“I meant cigarettes. I’ve gotten high.”
“Ooh,” he mocked.
I grabbed my hips. “It’s still illegal. And I’ve stolen things. I stole a belt one time from Sears. Got caught and had to give it back, which was totally embarrassing since my friends were with me. I’ve also busted into a car before.”
His eyebrow raised.
“See? You’re judging me right now. You don’t know why I did it,” I said, driving home my point. “I’m assuming you stole food because you were hungry?”