Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74348 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74348 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Even if he couldn't hear me per se, I was pretty sure he would feel the vibrations if I beat on his door enough.
There was comfort in that.
It wasn't just that, of course. The protection element.
Clearly.
Otherwise I wouldn't be quite so into our text conversations.
I was drawn to him. There was no denying that. Maybe because I saw something in him that I felt within myself.
Loneliness.
He would likely balk at that. Or whatever the hot, biker, criminal equivalent to balking was.
He would remind me that he had his brothers, that he had his girls.
But, in a way, he didn't.
At least not in the way that he used to.
He would be angry that the thought even crossed my mind, but they had - in some ways - left him behind. Of course, sometimes that happened. With friends, with families. Relationships waxed and waned. Very little was always constant in life. But they moved on to their new lives with their new people... and they had left him.
As for his brothers, well, he didn't seem to have the same bond with them as he had with his girls. There was a disconnect. Maybe even an understandable one since he had lived with the girls for so long, they had gotten to know him, understand him. I somehow didn't picture a bunch of badass biker guys going out of their way to pick up on nonverbal cues. That just wasn't really a strength most men I had known possessed. Which meant he didn't feel quite a part of it like everyone else did.
He talked about them fondly, telling me stories about them, making everything so vivid that it was almost like a movie in my head as I read the texts.
Cam - You won't believe what West did today...
That was how a lot of the texts started out, West being the resident shit-starter, always to be counted on for some verbal misstep that ticked off someone else, the brotherly teasing, the unexpected acts of gentleness and sweetness you wouldn't expect.
A few days ago, he'd told me about how West was the one mixing drinks at the latest party they'd had at the clubhouse. He had made up some blue punch concoction - more liquor than fruit, always a heavy-handed pourer - but had switched out the glass belonging to Maze - Repo's woman - with Windex.
Then he had given me an update several days later when Maze had carefully plotted out her revenge. She brought milkshakes to the guys at the club, but had emptied out West's, filling it instead with mayonnaise which West loathed with a burning passion. Apparently, he had taken a long slurp that left him retching and folded over a toilet for the rest of the afternoon while Maze laughed her butt off.
I felt like I knew Maze in those moments, how she had likely gone home after the drink mishap and carefully thought out her retribution, made sure enough time passed that he wouldn't be suspicious, then the satisfaction in his reaction.
I thought I knew West, too, when in another story, Cam told me how West had been walking the compound - doing "rounds" which I figured meant something to do with security - and came across one of the teenage daughters of the older brothers sobbing in the back after getting humiliated by the guy she had been crushing on for months, and sat with her until she stopped crying. He then reminded her that she was a badass and that she should consider it a blessing that the guy didn't want her because she would go on to build her empire while he rotted away at some menial job, gut expanding so far that he couldn't even see his own dick anymore, his hairline receding, living a life of utter mediocrity as she thrived.
It made sense to me, the sweet support moments mixed with the pranks and teasing. It sounded like a typical boy raised with sisters to me.
I couldn't help but wish maybe I could meet these people in person, that I could get to know them in a more personal way.
It wasn't possible, of course. I understood that. The fleetingness of any connection I formed. That didn't mean there weren't things I craved, things I wanted so badly it made me sad and angry and frustrated in equal turns.
It wasn't that it was getting harder with each move. I had never formed any kind of attachments in any of my old towns. There was nothing to be sad about leaving behind. No one to leave behind. It made it easier. There was always stress, always uncertainty. But at the end of the day, any old crummy apartment was just as good as the last.
It didn't help that I liked the area, either. The close proximity of the beach without too much traffic, without too many sand-covered, half-dressed people making huge lines at the check-outs of the local food stores, convenience stops, and gas stations.