Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
It was short-lived, however, because sunrise comes quick during Lickin’ week, and before I’d even settled into a particularly agriculture-themed dreamscape, Ava’s father was honking the air horn and shouting up at me about early birds.
“Yeah,” I grumbled back. “Yeah, got it. I’m, ah, doing my pre-run meditation. Need a few minutes to wrap it up, m’kay?”
Before I could even roll over and bury my head under the pillow, much less fall back asleep, the air horn honked again and two dozen birds went screaming past my open window.
“Coming!” I singsonged through gritted teeth.
Thankfully, Ava had procured some kind of miracle elixir from the café, and by the time I dragged my ass to the starting area of the race, I was fully caffeinated and ready to give it my best. After the frustrations leading up to my being in the Thicket, I figured I had plenty of emotional energy to burn off on the run. I could knock out a 5K in my sleep, so this little fun run wasn’t going to be a problem.
“Here’s your bucket,” Ava said, handing me a metal pail of…
“Milk?” I glanced up at her in confusion. “I’m not thirsty, but thanks?”
“No, idiot. You have to carry this on the run. It’s a reminder of the way the original Thicketeers used to hand-deliver milk to the townsfolk.”
I heard some young men snickering behind me, and I turned to shoot them a glare. Despite not giving a shit what some dumbasses thought of me, I still felt the familiar nerves wobble in my gut. Apparently you could take the scrawny gay boy out of Homer, but you couldn’t make him forget.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not carrying a pail of milk on a run.” I faced forward and took a deep breath, trying to let go of old memories.
“Mal, everyone carries a pail of milk. That’s the whole point of the Lope. The person who comes in fastest without losing their load.”
This couldn’t be real. I looked around us to see that it was, in fact, real. All of the runners were accepting their milk pails with a smile.
Ava continued. “It’s calibrated. You can’t lose a drop or you get points deducted. Dude, you’re the one who collected the milk for this. Didn’t you know what it was for?”
I threw up my hands. “Are you asking me why I was milking cows on a dairy farm? Really?”
“Stop being a drama queen and take it. We need this win, Mal. You have no idea what a bad mood my dad will be in if an Ivey doesn’t win this year.”
I thought maybe my back teeth might break before the week was out, and I wasn’t in a financial position to replace them. “Fine. But if I win this fucking race, you’re going to stop stalling and take me to meet your CEO friend so I can sell my damned reef piece.”
She grinned and handed me the bucket. “Absolutely. Good luck!”
Once she’d blended into the crowd, I turned back toward the front of the starting group. The town assholes were still goofing off, and I secretly hoped they spilled their milk and cried about it. Hard.
“This is what my life has come to,” I muttered under my breath. “I need to get back to California.”
“Dude, there’s something wrong with your pail handle.”
I glanced over to see one of the guys from the asshole group pointing at my bucket. There was no way I was falling for his prank. Been there, done that.
“Mpfh. Thanks,” I said before mentally rolling my eyes. “It’s fine.”
“No, for real. It looks like it’s about to—”
I ignored the rest of his bullshit as soon as I spotted Brooks at the front of the pack. He was wearing tiny running shorts that were 92 percent bubble butt and 8 percent drool-worthy bulge. I wondered if I could use his body like the rabbit lure on a dog track. There was a good chance I could win this race by following that muscular butt as long as I saved enough in the tank for the final kick past him at the end.
He must have felt me mentally stripping him down because he turned to look over his shoulder and caught me mid-stare.
Then he winked one green eye at me.
Cocky fucker. As soon as the ceremonial pistol was literally shot into the air (and I subsequently jumped high enough to almost grace everyone around me with a lovely milk bath before even crossing the starting line), we were off.
It turned out that running with a heavy pail of sloshy milk wasn’t easy or fun in any way. I found it hard to believe anyone had ever delivered milk this way, and if they had, it was a practice that should have died out a long time ago when Randall Ivey made his bad bet at the Feed and Seed.