Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
We had to drive to the ferry, which he was riding with me because I had my things and needed to search for a room. We were almost to the boat when I glanced at the speedometer.
“You’re going five miles over the speed limit,” I told the driver, whose hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“Sorry about that.”
I thought about apologizing—I hated it when someone told me how to do something they couldn’t do themselves—but speed limits were there for a reason. It wasn’t as if I followed every rule there was, but driving stressed me out, hence why I didn’t do it. Someone should have considered another career if they couldn’t follow basic driving rules.
We finally got to the ferry. Little Beach was, luckily, only a thirty-minute ride from shore. Knots formed in my gut as we made our way over the ocean and closer to my new life…to a bookstore and Tattoo Guy and an apartment I probably couldn’t live in, and I really hoped Tattoo Guy didn’t suck. After Chester, I questioned Wilma Allen’s choices in those she associated with.
As much as I wanted to just relax and take my pants off, I’d given the driver the address of my bookstore instead of the hotel first.
He pulled up in front of a white brick building with seafoam-green accents. There were two doors—one for the bookstore, the other for the tattoo parlor. I sat there for a moment, just looking out the window. The left side had a sign that said Conflicting Ink, and the right read Little Beach Books. It had a stack of books on each side of the name. Tattoo Guy had gone with a similar theme, though his sign featured the torture device he used to draw on people’s skin.
And what was up with that name? Conflicting Ink.
Each store had a large front window, the bookstore’s with a display behind it, even though it was clear the store was closed down.
There was a cobblestone area along the right side, which was basically the cutest thing ever. I wondered if Wilma Allen had put tables there at all. It would be a nice place for customers to sit outside and read or to chat with friends.
I had a feeling the driver was mad at me because he didn’t say anything, just started to take my bags out of the trunk. It was so foreign to me sometimes—the things people got upset about. I hadn’t meant to piss him off, but he was the one speeding, so why was it my fault?
Apparently we wouldn’t be going to the hotel together. No matter, I’d figure it out. I didn’t like or want to be around him either.
I got out of the car, pulled my remaining bags from the back seat, and he mumbled something I couldn’t hear before getting in his car and driving away. I stood there on the sidewalk, people walking by, the smell of the ocean around me, and oh God, I really, really wanted to take my pants off.
But the town was cute. It reminded me of a postcard—the main street lined with beachy businesses, ice cream parlors, restaurants, and shops.
I tried to imagine Mom here, growing up in this place, and the image didn’t fit right in my brain. She felt too California for this. I was sure she was blowing up my phone, but I still had it on do not disturb.
I started walking my bags to the door of the bookstore. I’d been given the number for a woman named Rachel. She had worked for Wilma Allen and would be willing to do so for me too. Little Beach Books hadn’t been open since Wilma Allen’s passing.
I had…a lot of bags, probably too many, but I chose to pretend that wasn’t the case. Once I had them all around me, basically blocking me in, I fumbled for the keys, pulling them out of my pocket and reading each label until I found the one for the front door.
Everyone should label everything…even though I didn’t. But I appreciated the effort when others did.
Just as I pushed the key into the lock, I heard, “Oh, hey. You must be Wilma’s grandson.”
I turned around to who I immediately assumed was Tattoo Guy. He clearly liked them even more than I liked labels, and he used them more too. From his wrists up were dragons and random designs and… Was that a top hat?
He wore shorts and flip-flops, which were probably one of the worst inventions ever. How could you walk around with something stuck between your toes? The torture devices were uncomfortable and ridiculous, but he did have nice feet. He scored points for that.
There were more tattoos on his calves and shins, but without bending down, I couldn’t make out what they all were.