Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I wanted to snap at her, and that made me feel like shit. She was grinning and kind of swaying from side to side, and I could see how sweet she looked, but part of me wanted to yell at her to get out and let me do my chores.
“Sure,” I choked out, turning back to the tub. “Grab all the dirty towels and bring them to the laundry.”
“Okay!” she said happily. Then she started pulling the towels from the racks.
“Just the dirty ones,” I snapped.
“Oh.” She looked over at me wide-eyed, and swallowed hard. “Sorry.”
Inhaling through my nose, I fought the tears that threatened. “It’s okay,” I said finally. “Just put the clean ones back on the shelf, okay?”
She nodded and I went back to what I was doing, forcing myself not to look back at her to make sure she was doing what I’d asked. My annoyance had been so illogical that I was ashamed. It took about one minute for her to put the folded towels away, and then she was leaving the bathroom, dragging the dirty towels down the hall to the laundry room.
I was glad when she was gone. I felt like an asshole and I just wanted to be alone while I tried to get my temper under control. I assumed she wouldn’t be coming back, since I’d totally yelled at her, but a few minutes later, I froze when I heard her little voice behind me.
“Now what, sissy?” she asked, shifting from one foot to the other.
I burst into tears.
* * *
I’d done all my chores and had just dropped onto the couch for a break when I heard my dad’s bike roll up to the house. It was still a little early for him to be home, but I didn’t think anything of it. I was sweaty and kind of tired, and the only thing I cared about was making sure he didn’t walk over the clean floors in the kitchen.
“Let’s go, Lilybug,” Dad called from the front door, not even bothering to step inside.
“What?” I replied, turning my head to look at him.
“Put some shoes on,” he ordered. “And a coat.”
He closed the door between us, and I huffed in annoyance as I dragged my ass off the couch and slid some sneakers on my feet. Mom and Charlie were doing something upstairs, so I didn’t bother telling them I was leaving as I grabbed a jacket and went out front.
My dad was standing next to his bike, and when I reached him, he handed me my mom’s helmet without a word. As I put it on, he turned away and climbed on the bike, waiting patiently for me to climb on behind him. Once I was situated, we were off. I stared over his shoulder as we flew down the road and tightened my arms around his waist.
I loved my dad. He was the best man I’d ever met. As we cruised down winding roads, I felt my body begin to relax for the first time in months. It began in my shoulders and worked its way down my back until I was comfortably leaning against him, my helmet resting against his cut. I closed my eyes, and just for a second, I was thirteen again, disoriented but oddly unafraid as my dad took me on my first ride after the attack.
As we began to slow, I opened my eyes and realized we were at the gate outside the club’s property. We didn’t stop as the prospects on the gate opened it wide enough for us to pass through, and then we were gingerly riding down the smooth gravel until we’d reached the forecourt.
My shoulders were tight again by the time my dad had parked the bike.
“Follow me,” he said gruffly as we climbed off the bike.
He didn’t say another word as I followed him around the side of the clubhouse. Once we were in the grassy area out back, he kept walking. Half a football field from the back of the building, he stopped and turned to me, pulling a pistol from the holster under his cut and holding it out to me.
“Uh, what?” I asked in confusion, glancing back at the building behind us.
“Take it.”
I reached out and gripped the handle the way I’d been taught, then dropped my arm down so it pointed toward the ground, still staring at him in confusion.
“See that log?” he asked, pointing toward a downed tree. “Go to town.”
“Uh, what?” I asked again.
Dad sighed. “You got a lot of anger in ya, a lot of frustration,” he said quietly, reaching up to run his hand down the back of his head before crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t know what’s causin’ it. Don’t know how to help ya. Figured we could start with this.”