Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 76780 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76780 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
It’s been ages since I’ve allowed myself an evening walk to explore the town. Hank scared the shit out of me. His threats were hooks that gouged their way deep in my gut and kept me safely tethered at home. For so long, the echoes of those words he said haunted me, even after he was locked up.
Now that Atlas is patrolling the streets, I do feel safer. Safe from Hank’s memory, Ned’s saliva, and that drunk-ass who harassed me last night.
I slip out the front door, hating life the second the icy early morning wind assaults me. Jax’s house faces Wolffish Bay and takes a brutal beating when the weather is nastily cold. Pulling my hoodie down over my eyes, I keep my head down and protected as I prowl through the shadows.
By the time I make it to Main Street, I can’t feel my fingers or my toes. This is a bad idea. But, bad ideas are kind of my thing. The main drag in this town is dead for the night. All the businesses, even the bar and club, are closed. No lights are lit up, not even at the police station.
I stick to the shadows, making sure to stay on the side opposite Granger’s Home Décor—because, smile, you’re on camera!—and keep a brisk pace as I head to my location. When I reach Second Street, I cross the desolate road, running quickly past the donut shop.
Finally.
Standing in front of BFB Bank & Trust, I’m overcome with the need to do so much more than spit.
Ned Townsend’s son did a helluva lot more than spit on me. Hank destroyed me. His evil and cruelty are something I’ll never forget. I have the scar on my fucking skull to remind me every day. And, just when I thought things were getting better, Ned had to go and spit on me.
I feel eyes on me and jerk my gaze to the empty building behind me. Nothing. No lights. No people. For a second, I nearly call out Cormac’s name. Me and Zak used to think he lived in Old Condo Row with his mom, but we can’t confirm that. What we can confirm is that he’s super sketchy when it’s time to go home and is always having us drop him off at some random corner. I’ve often wondered if he’s holed up in the empty warehouse across from the bank. One of these days, I’m going to stalk him until I find out for sure since he refuses to tell us.
Squinting, I peer into the darkened windows of the warehouse, looking for movement or light. Again, nothing. It’s just my paranoia creeping up on me. I let loose a long sigh before running across the street, sticking to the shadows and away from streetlights.
I’m panting, sucking in cold, icy breaths when I reach the bank. It’s more shadowed and hidden on the side with just one light, but you can’t see that side of the bank from the street. No, what I have planned, I want all to see.
Especially Ned.
The only sound that can be heard is the heavy breathing that I try to muffle and the soft clanging of my backpack. I stop in front of the giant window the bank tellers look out of when talking to the drive-through customers. Perfect. I squat down and unzip my backpack. Excitement trickles through my veins, making me feel alive and free for the first time in months and months. I dig around until I find what I’m looking for.
Fire red.
Atlas’s red lips are the perfect inspiration as I pluck the cap off and shake the can. With practiced movements, I spray a perfect fire red arch. Not on the window but on the brick. Slightly more permanent than some of my other work.
That’s what getting spit on by your stalker/attacker/psycho’s dad will do to you.
I shove the lid on the can and trade fire red for popsicle orange. Another perfect arc of paint, this one just under the red. And then, sunbeam yellow. I step back and admire my work. Next up…
Spring grass.
Ned’s lucky I’m the Rainbow Vigilante and not the Hairy Balls Vigilante. It’s a testament to my maturity that I’m giving him the same as everyone else.
Patriotic blue.
I wish I could see his face when he pulls into work tomorrow. I’d pay damn good money for that. Maybe, if Cormac really lives in the building behind me, he can give me a replay of the old man’s meltdown.
Merlot.
He’s going to be spittin’ mad. I snort at my joke as I put the lid back on the merlot spray can and shove it back into the bag. I pause to rub my hands together and cup them so I can blow heat into them for warmth. My eyes water from the cold, but I’m not done yet. I root around in my backpack until I find the last can.