Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
He goes back to work, while I just stand there, watching him, whatever argument was on my lips disappearing altogether. There’s no use talking to him. There never was. He got saddled raising us eight years ago, and he’s been angry at the world ever since.
I can’t say I remember him being any different before then, though. All I wanted when I was sixteen was for him to smile. Or say that I did something well. But he was always a ghost.
I don’t even think he cried at our parents’ funerals.
“Macon …” I murmur.
He removes the engine cover, turning it over and placing it on his workbench.
I speak a little louder. “Will you look at me, please?”
He dumps the bolts inside the cover and turns back to the car as if I’ve already left the garage. He hates me.
I take a deep breath and tip my chin back up. “Krisjen has no money,” I tell him. “She needs me to fix the car.”
“I’ll fix the fuckin’ car,” he growls. “Like I don’t have enough to do. Just get to work, because soon enough you get to sit on your ass all day, and you’re still gonna need money from me.”
I swallow the fucking rotten taste in my mouth, because he’s not wrong. He’s never fucking wrong, and I’m always a piece of shit.
According to every interaction I’ve had with him the past eight years, I’m all but useless.
I feel stupid enough. If I could go back and change it, I would hope I wouldn’t get into that fight. I wouldn’t have gotten drunk, let my temper get the better of me, and hurt the wrong person so badly over something I don’t even remember that I put him in the hospital.
I knew it was a mistake. I always do, but it’s like I can’t stop myself.
I’m not worried about going to prison. I’m worried it won’t change me.
“I fucked up.” My eyes start to burn with tears I fucking hate myself for. “I fuck up.”
But he doesn’t spare me another glance.
I reach into my pocket, tossing Krisjen’s keys on the table. “The alignment, the brakes,” I tell him, “the radiator is leaking, and I’m guessing the oil is as thick as mud.”
A snarl hits his lips, and I almost smile, but I don’t.
When I head out of the garage, Trace is climbing into the bed of the truck and Army’s crossing the street, minus Dex.
“Give me the keys.” I hold out my hands.
Army smiles, shaking his head, because he knows Macon won.
He tosses the keys, and I catch them.
“Don’t laugh,” I say.
“Hey, nothing to be ashamed of,” he teases. “I’m older than you, and he still scares the shit out of me.”
“And that’s nothing to brag about.”
“No, but staying alive is.”
Army starts to turn, but I spot Dallas back by the truck, stealing glances at us and trying to get the beer into the cooler before Army sees.
I pull Army’s arm, distracting him to give Dallas time. “Hey.”
Army stops and turns back, facing me.
“You need to handle Aracely,” I tell him.
He looks confused. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
“She wants to be.” I pull off my T-shirt and stick it in my back pocket. “She’ll listen to you. Tell her to stop doing dumb shit, please.”
He smiles. “Like taking advantage of a St. Carmen princess?” he muses, because he knows she slashed Krisjen’s tires. “Like we all like to do from time to time? Since when do you give anyone a ride home?”
“I’m a gentleman.”
He cocks an eyebrow.
“Well, I’m the most gentlemanly.”
He snorts. “Probably true.”
“Well, no one wants me to be a gentleman,” Dallas says, coming up to my side. “That’s for sure.”
He grins at Army, our older brother’s eyes shifting between us as Dallas hangs his arm across my shoulder.
“Look.” Army sighs. “I know you’re the middle children and all, but your rebellious stages are long overdue for a fucking conclusion, so wrap it up, because I’m exhausted.” And then he flicks Dallas on the forehead. “And get the goddamn beer out of the cooler. It’s eight o’clock in the morning, and I’m not an idiot.”
He walks off; Dallas and I head for the truck.
“Can we start drinking now?” I gripe.
“Noon.” He gives my shoulders a squeeze. “It’ll give you something to look forward to.”
He climbs into the back with Trace, and I open the cab, tossing in my shirt. “God, it’s so fucking hot still. I think I’ll camp out on the beach tonight. I can’t deal with his shit for the next eight days.”
“Macon’s on my case almost as much as yours,” Dallas chimes in. “You can stick around and buffer before I have to deal with him by myself for the next three and a half years.”
“What the fuck is his problem all the time?” I say under my breath.