Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 130221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
I pick it up, not even hesitating. I’ll need energy when I run.
I sink my teeth through the egg and toast, the crackle of the bread like music. The butter hits my tongue, and for a second, I’m seven years old and in Clara’s—our neighbor’s—kitchen, making treats for Christmas as the music plays. Savory and warm and everything smells good.
A good moment.
When I think about myself happy someday, it’s not me traveling or buying a nice car or working somewhere important. It’s having a thousand moments just like that, where I’m exactly where I want to be. The next moment may suck. I still have to go back to the same foster home or deal with the same problem or not know what I’m eating tonight, but in this…one…moment, I love the view.
I fold the toast in half, smashing all the food together inside and finish it quickly in four more bites. Clearing my throat, I swallow and gulp down the orange juice he put out, and then sip some coffee.
Hawke makes his plate, and I speak before I lose my nerve. “I need about ninety-thousand dollars,” I tell him. “And you need to not be arrested, so I’d say that makes us a team.”
He turns, unfazed, and scrapes his eggs onto a piece of toast. “And we need to shut down Officer Reeves,” he adds.
I’m kind of relieved it seems that he’s agreeing we should work together, but his goal is loftier than mine. I would love to shut that asshole down, and it’s cute that he thinks he can.
“Where are the goods?” he asks, setting the pan in the sink. “The drugs? His operation? At the garage?”
I fist the mug, warming my hand. “You want to steal from him?”
“It’s what you’re good at, isn’t it, Rebel?”
“Aro,” I remind him. I stopped being a Rebel eight months ago.
He nods, still not looking at me. “And my name’s Hawke,” he says. “As opposed to ‘you motherfucker’.”
I hold back my grin, watching him dump Tabasco onto his eggs. So he understood that, huh?
I gaze around the great room, sipping the coffee and noticing small reflections of light in the corners near the ceiling. Lenses catching the sun coming through the high windows. Was there a camera in the room I slept in last night?
“You have a shitload of surveillance around town,” I state, judging from what I saw on his monitors last night. “Is it yours, or are you tapping into the county cameras?”
He leans a hand on the counter, picking up his open-faced sandwich with the other. His stomach flexes just above the apron, and I blink, taking another sip. “Where is his operation?” he continues instead.
“What makes you think I know that?”
He takes a bite, chews steadily as he sets the food back down.
“You’re my age,” he says, “which means you should’ve graduated this year but didn’t.”
I listen.
“You haven’t been in school in eight months,” he goes on, “not that your foster mom cared as long as the checks kept coming, right? But even those don’t secure you a home anymore, since you’ve aged out.”
The heat from the mug burns, but I press harder.
“You were removed from your mother’s house when you were nine and again when you were fourteen.” He sprinkles some salt on his eggs. “But your siblings weren’t, so I’m guessing they believed your mom when she claimed you attacked your stepfather for no reason.”
I steel my spine, watching him as he focuses on his task and the shit coming out of his mouth.
“But you never told the social workers why,” he tells me, “because no matter what was going on at home, you knew being in the system was worse, and you didn’t want that for your siblings. Hugo, Nicholas, and Axel were your foster brothers. You met them when you were fifteen, and you’ve been with them ever since.”
He takes another bite, glancing at me and thinking he knows me when he knows even less than I assumed he did. We’re nearly eye level, but somehow, he manages to look down like I fucking work for him.
“You’re the one they send to collect protection money, rents, loans…” he continues. “You’ve been doing it for a few years now. They send you alone.” He pauses for effect. “A girl.”
And now I see what he’s getting at.
“They trust you.” He pours himself some coffee. “They know you get shit done. You have to be thinking about the future, and since education doesn’t seem to be a priority, I’m guessing this life is all that’s next for you.”
Which means I’m invested. Which means he knows he’s correct in assuming I’m a significant part of Green Street.
He raises the mug to his lips. “How often does Reeves come to the garage?”
I hesitate. He may not trust me, but there’s no reason to trust him, either. He’s not in any danger. Not really. What’s to stop him from cutting and running any time he wants? That job is all I have. All I had anyway.