Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Being pleased with the answer prompts him into speaking again. “You don’t eat in The Harbor. Why?”
“Too much noise in there. Staff. Dishes. Bitches.
“Seeing a pattern.”
“Never claimed I was complex.”
“What sort of bullshit jobs did you used to do?”
“Usually just errand shit for whoever was looking for a disposal hire. Cash drop here. Pick up there. Small local deliveries that were too hot for their usual bagboys to get in and out of. Sometimes I’d help a prospect escort an old lady to a safehouse. Watch the bikes at a strip club. Nothing special. Nothing to be remembered for. Did well enough to keep work yet not well enough to take work, you feel me?”
“You did what you needed to get what you wanted without stepping on the toes of someone who would kill you.”
“Exactly.”
“What about legal shit? What was your last one on paper?”
“Couldn’t fuckin’ tell ya.”
“Interests?”
“Outside of a fascination with the cultivation and distribution of high-priced bud?
He delivers a single nod.
“Uh…,” an adjustment to my damp white t-shirt is made, “maybe…cars?”
“Boosting?”
I grunt a small laugh. “Was never good at that shit.”
Doc’s stern silence yet again encourages me to keep talking.
“Boosting and selling to a chop shop would’ve been great fucking money. In the beginning, the problem was I knew about cars in theory, particularly the high-end ones, but not a lot of shit about what’s under the hood. See, my father collected mistresses while Ivo’s father collected foreign cars. We’re talking some of the most exotic fucking beauties. Some of the ones they only make like a thousand of and shit. Ivo knew his father loved those cars more than he did, so he kept his distance, but it didn’t stop my ass from admiring them. Buying car magazines and shit to learn fucking everything I could about them. Got to a point where, some of his clients and our classmates would fuck up their parents’ classic cars or sometimes their own brand-new toys and needed to know how much damage they did or how to cover the shit up to avoid issues with the Bank of Mom and Dad. They would pay me for the knowledge I had or well-crafted excuses that would fly with facts to back it up – no refunds if you don’t sell your sob story well enough –, which was good because my sperm donor caught wind of some fuckery afoot and started monitoring the increasing amount of money I was constantly spending…”
“You ever finally get under the actual hood of one?”
My head bobs side to side. “I made my rounds over the years. Here and there pickin’ up what I could. Never enough to smoothly boost or boost and swap, but I know how to change oil and shit. Swap a tire. Check fluids.”
“Perhaps you should look into mechanic work when your time is complete.”
I don’t respond.
I honestly don’t know how to.
Complete is not a word I imagined myself saying or hearing before him.
Before Noah marched in and demanded I be in his daughter’s life.
For me to have a relationship with her.
Him.
Another tug at my damp hair is given at the same instant Doc investigates, “Is anyone else in your family interested in cars like you?”
“No.” My hands fall back together in my lap. “Noah is a lot like our father, a sportsman. Pre-Shelly, my sister-in-law, it was football. Post Shelly? He’s primarily only into hockey now. Which is fucking fine with me because I like hockey more than football anyway.”
“What about Liz?”
“My obnoxious, French impersonating, sister is exactly like our mother in that aspect. She hates the idea of the things that make you sweat because of what it can do to your hair. Afterall, trips to the stylist aren’t cheap, Doc.”
The smallest smirk slips loose prior to him inquiring, “What about Bambi?”
Flatly, I ask, “What about Bambi?”
“Your interest in cars began during her time in your life. Did she share that with you?”
“No. She shared very little outside of her body, her friends, and her stash with me.”
“Did Blue Dream know?”
“Um…,” a wistful smile slides onto my face, “actually…she did.” There’s no stopping my stare from shifting away into the distance. “I didn’t have to tell her shit. She…always…just asked. After she saw a car mag in my backseat one time, she just made a point to ask and listen about what I was into or what I’d learned or what I thought was interesting at the time.” The increased longing isn’t kept out of my voice in spite of my trying. “She was always…really amazing about being there for me in that way.”
“Bambi wasn’t.”
Her name shifts my attention back to him as well as a sneer onto my expression. “Bambi was definitely about what Bambi wanted.”
“She sounds similar to the way you’ve described the rest of your family.” He doesn’t pause for a reply. “We’ve discussed your feelings on family. How important it is to you now. How much you wanted to feel you belonged back then. The need for acceptance was initially so powerful that you walked away from Blue Dream to chase it, yet later, once you reclaimed her to a degree, that need was still so strong, you kept her a secret.”