Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“Jesus, kid, what’s crawled up your ass? I’m in a pinch here. How can you treat your own mother like this?”
I stop, take a breath, then face her. “Sorry. Love you.”
“Love you, too, you big brat.”
“I’m still not playing detective.” The pleading look in her eyes stops me. “But I’ll ask around. Maybe Finn knows something, since our dads are all chummy or whatever.”
“That’s all I want.” She puts out her cigarette. “I’ll see you later, then?”
“Sure, I’ll bring some grub by for you and Skip.”
“Don’t forget Kent and his boyfriend Jonah.”
Kent’s words on the pier still buzz in my ears like mad flies. I try to hide the irritation on my face. “Alright, sure.”
Of course she sees right through it. “What’s that look for? Don’t tell me you and Kent are fighting yet again.”
“Later, Mom.” Before she pries any further, I head off to the kitchen to deal with my next thing—whatever it is.
It isn’t until nearly half an hour past when my shift is supposed to end that I finally get out of the doors. With a bag of overpriced to-go delicacies, I stand by the side of my car in the parking lot, calming myself as the evening air drifts past me. Teegan’s party is probably well underway. I can still make it, even after dropping off food to Mom. Call it a hunch, but after the past couple of hours, I’ve already got a feeling this weekend is gonna be hell.
Just then, a motorcycle carrying two guys roars like a lion in the night, catching my attention. I look up just as it whizzes by on Boardwalk Street.
Chapter 3 - Quintin
Fuck me, Vann goes fast.
I cling to him the whole ride, terrified. My hair feels like it might peel straight off my scalp as the wind screams all around us. Vann, meanwhile, is as cool as a crunchy little cucumber while we tear down the causeway.
And as we pass the giant parking lot of the Quicksilver Strand, I spot a guy standing by his car. Something about his crisp, dressy attire and bowtie catches my eyes. Just as I look at him, he seems to look right at us. I think we might be having a moment, this mystery hunk and I.
Then he’s gone.
And so the fuck are we: burning rubber down the road.
Even at night, the beach is alive with men, colorful blankets, and laughter. The streets are filled with a sense of excitement as people head to and from dinner, or catch a late-night movie, or make their way down to the beach or up to the north pier where the Hopewell Fair is. It’s impossible not to get swept up instantly in the mood. I’ve barely been here two minutes and already know it was the right choice to leave that loft and all of my troubles behind.
After turning off of Boardwalk Street and cutting down a couple of smaller streets, we come to a stop in front of a quaint and colorful two-story house. It’s on a narrow road that leads straight to the beach. Outside, a waist-high fence encloses a small yard of colorful flowers and potted plants, sliced down the middle by a paved walkway leading to a creaky porch. The house is such an interesting shape, with mismatched windows in the front, a balcony jutting off of one side of the second story, lattice work crawling up the other side with flowers and vines growing into it, and a pointy rooftop with a dormer window peeking out of it like an eye caught mid-wink, that I’m certain no other house in the world exists quite like it. It literally screams “artist”.
When Vann leads me inside, I discover it isn’t as zany as the outer appearance lets on. It’s homey and peaceful, with just a few details to give it character, like an upright piano with a red-and-purple ukulele sitting on top of it, and a weathered greenish armchair by the window that matches nothing else in the room, yet feels perfectly in place.
I stop at a shelf lined with miniature fantasy-themed figurines of elves, dwarves, and one scary-ass dragon with red gems for eyes. “You said your boyfriend inherited this house?” I ask as I turn to gaze at the living room, where I notice a white, long-haired cat sleeping on the arm of a cute, cozy couch, not in the least disturbed by my arrival.
“It’s got its charm,” says Vann as he takes my bag off of my shoulder for me and slings it over his own. “Just … don’t look too closely or you’ll see all the aging. Toby!” he calls out. “Toby! We’ve got some company!” He stops at the foot of the stairs and cocks an ear. “Hmm. Sounds like he’s in the shower. Hey, let me take you to your room.”