Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I’m sure I could catch someone slipping, but the only actual member that’s here is Rose’s husband, Doc, and he isn’t saying a word. He’s never been rude to me, but I feel like he’s of the opinion that I don’t belong here, which is making him keep his distance.
Chin in my hand, turned facing the window, I wait for them to show up. I feel the couch dip beside me, but I don’t even turn to see who it is. Em is the only one who approaches me without care. The other girls don’t avoid me really, but they don’t go out of their way to be friendly either. Maybe it’s my age; maybe they feel like I’m encroaching on their MC members.
“They’re still not here,” I tell Em stating the obvious.
“Diego sent me a text message a little bit ago; they’re on their way.”
I turn and glare at her. “You’re just now telling me this?”
“Khloe,” she says with a frown. “You knowing a couple of hours ago wouldn’t have made any difference.”
“I miss him.”
I pull my phone from my pocket and open my text app.
Emmalyn’s hand closes over mine. “Listen Khloe, Diego says he has some memory loss. They haven’t given him his phone back.”
That explains why he hasn’t messaged me back and why the calls continue to go straight to voicemail.
“He asked me to tell you to stop sending him texts and leaving voicemails.” She cringes having to deliver the news.
“How bad is the memory loss?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she says softly.
I have a million questions, but I decide not to ask. She may not know the information, and if she did, I feel like she wouldn’t tell me the full truth.
Memory loss. Like he’s struggling with remembering what he had for breakfast? Or he can’t even remember his own name?
I swallow my tears and look back out the window. I can’t help but wonder if Kincaid knew this before he left the other day. He told me he was fine, and he may be physically okay, but memory loss- that’s not okay at all.
“Maybe we can make his favorite meal, or grab one of those half and half shakes from the diner. That could help with his memory,” I offer.
She gives me a weak placating smile and eventually nods her head. “I don’t know about the shake, but I do know that lasagna is his favorite. The other guys would appreciate a home cooked meal when they get back as well.”
She stands from the couch and holds her hand out to me. “Let’s go make him lasagna.”
I know she’s just trying to pacify me, and I let her. I need something to keep my mind and my hands busy. Cooking is much better than sitting at the window and staring off into the desert.
Emmalyn points to a cabinet. “Pasta is in there.”
I open the cabinet and reach in for the noodles. “How many boxes do you think we’ll need?”
She scrunches her brows up in contemplation. “It’s only us girls, Diego, Kid, and Shadow. Snatch and Itchy aren’t going to be here. All the other guys are also out of town. So maybe we make three big pans?”
“Three?” I choke out.
She laughs. “Have you seen how much the guys eat? They each put away over a pizza and a half when we order in.” My eyes widen, “And those are the large ones.”
“Okay, then.” I laugh lightly. “Three pans of lasagna.”
She pulls meat from the freezer and begins to thaw it in the two industrial microwaves.
“Make our own sauce or use the jars in the pantry?” I ask angling my head out of the wall in pantry area.
“Might as well use the jars. We don’t really have the time we need to get the sauce simmered perfectly.”
I nod and grab the sauce. With her words, I know that they will be home in less than two hours. I’m thrilled and terrified at the same time.
Emmalyn catches me in contemplation periodically and rubs my back gently. What she doesn’t do is tell me everything will be okay. I appreciate and hate it at the same time.
I’m easily forgettable. Life has proven that to me. My mother couldn’t be bothered to be concerned about me. Each and every foster home I’ve been in, I’ve been overlooked. The only time I’ve gotten an ounce of individual attention since my parents’ death is when I’ve gotten in trouble. Well, that and the foster dad who would get drunk and stumble into my room when I was younger. I shudder and try to block that shit out of my head.
Kid.
He paid attention to me. I never felt left out around him. He sat beside me at each meal; he held me at night even when I knew it was killing him because of the self-imposed no touching rule. He’s sacrificed for me, and if he comes home and doesn’t remember me, I’ll be devastated, heartbroken, but I won’t give up.