Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
I’m a threat.
He rises to his feet and ambles away. Without speaking or casting me a backward glance, he effectively brushes me off.
My stomach sinks. The disappointment is made worse when he joins a table of smiling young women.
I remain seated, easily forgotten and replaced with the flirtatious giggles of his friends. Or potential bed partners. Or whatever those women are to him.
It stings. It shouldn’t, but I’m hypersensitive to being cast away by men. It’s like I’m wearing a sign on my forehead that reads, Not worth the effort.
Not even worth a goodbye.
As much as I want to tuck tail and flee, pride holds me in place through several songs. The music isn’t bad. A little twangy. I like all kinds of genres, especially country pop. The folks in this town would probably roll their eyes at that.
Or so I thought.
Legends by country-pop singer Kelsea Ballerini trickles through the speakers, and the room gravitates toward the dance floor. At the center, Jake and Conor sway in an embrace that entrances the entire bar.
It’s not just the seductive way they dance together. It’s the passion that glows between them, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist, and all they see is each other.
I thought I had that with someone once, and it was pretty amazing. Until it wasn’t.
At the end of the song, Conor steps off the dance floor and heads into the bathroom. A few minutes later, Jake bypasses the line outside the door and shuts them both inside.
Across the room, the woman beside Jarret runs a hand up his thigh.
I’ve seen enough.
I make my way out of the Big Sugar. If Jarret’s aware of my exit, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t look in my direction once.
No matter. He’ll see me again.
When I reach my ugly old sedan, I move it to an unlit corner of the parking lot and wait.
Jarret said he planned to work off some steam in a warm, feisty body. If that’s the case, he’ll leave with a woman.
Does he have a regular lover? Or does he play the field? If he has a confidant, someone he spends a lot of time with, I might have better luck coaxing information from her.
Thirty minutes later, Jake leads Conor out of the bar. Her smile screams freshly fucked, and following on their heels is Jarret.
He’s alone?
The three of them pile into a big pickup truck, with Jake in the driver’s seat.
It’s only ten in the evening. Traffic on the main street allows me to tail them at a distance without being noticed.
Until they reach a dirt road at the edge of town.
They turn off, kicking up dust and leaving the Sandbank traffic behind. If I follow, they’ll spot me.
I slow the car, creeping along the shoulder until Jake’s truck disappears over a hill. Then I veer onto the dirt road.
Not wanting to catch up with them, I maintain a slow speed until I reach a private drive about a mile up.
I scoped out the route to their ranch earlier today and found a place to bed down for the night. There’s a motel in town, but I didn’t bother checking for vacancy. I can’t afford to stay there.
Overgrown weeds consume the private road, surrounded by the seclusion of thick trees. The tire tracks are from my sedan earlier. Other than me, no one’s driven through here in a long time.
I back in, park the car out of view of the dirt road, and shut off the motor. When I’m ready to sleep, I’ll drive deeper onto the isolated property. There’s a lake back there I can use to wash in.
For now, I’m content to sit here and watch the road for activity. Since Jarret rode to the bar with Jake, it’s possible he went home for his own truck before heading out again.
If that happens, I’ll follow him. I have nothing else to do and nowhere to go. Everything I own is in this car. How’s that for privileged? Jarret would choke on his words if he knew how hard I worked for every penny I earned. And lost.
The large envelope on the passenger seat holds the solution to my homelessness. Once the documents are finalized, I’ll get a piece of my life back.
But money isn’t what brought me to Sandbank. I need to understand what happened. I need answers.
For now, I slide the envelope under the floor mat. From the backseat, I pull out a jar of beets and a bottle of water. Then I roll down the window and eat dinner beneath the soothing chirrup of night critters.
It’s quiet here, so unlike the constant din of a big city. I could live in a place like this, away from the hustle and judgment of people.
There’s nothing left for me in Chicago, and I won’t be returning. I can write articles from anywhere. Hell, I can wait tables or bartend and be happy.