Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Fred and Meryl go inside. The girl is about to follow when Preppy reaches out and grabs her arm. “Kevin, this is my wife, Andrea.”
“You can call me Dre,” she says with a big, genuine smile. She turns to Preppy and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Take your time. I’ll be right inside.”
He watches her as she slides the door shut and joins Fred in the kitchen. Meryl hands her a wine glass and the three of them start chatting and laughing like old friends. The way Preppy is watching her is possessive. “I love that woman,” he says out loud.
“I mean, aren’t you supposed to love your wife?” I ask. Which is why I’ll never marry. I’m not capable of love. I’m barely capable of friendship, which only consists of two gay dudes and Pike.
Preppy doesn’t answer. He’s too busy watching Dre, and when she laughs at something Meryl says, Preppy smiles right along with her. Which brings me to one of my questions. “How do you guys know Fred and Meryl?”
“Really?” he asks, turning back to me. “That’s what you want to lead with?”
He stands out of the hot tub, and I toss him a towel. He quickly dries himself off and wraps it around his waist. He picks up a discarded dress shirt from the ground and pulls it over his head before taking the seat beside me at the patio table.
“Figured it would be a start,” I say, lighting another smoke.
“Well, brother from possibly the same mother, we don’t know Fred and Meryl. We were being chased by a cop after we allegedly egged the convenience store due to the little bitch that works there being a waste of human life.”
“So, you didn’t egg the convenience store?” I ask.
Preppy purses his lips. “No, we totally did, I just forgot what allegedly meant for a second.” He takes another drag.
“I have so many questions,” I say.
“Me, too. So, let’s just do quick questions and answers for now. We will get to all the details later. That way we can get as many things out of the way as possible, and I won’t be too distracted to perform my husbandly duties when I get home. Deal?”
I smile. “Okay, deal. You start.”
“Why do you think I’m your brother?” He asks.
I take out my wallet and hand him the folded picture I’d been carrying in my wallet for over two years. “A year ago, my social worker gave me this and told me about you. I came to find you, but you were dead.”
He nods and inspects the picture. “Your turn.”
“Why did everyone think you were dead?” I ask.
Preppy takes a deep breath and fires his answer off in one breath. “I took a bullet and then got kidnapped from the hospital. The person who kidnapped me made sure that everyone thought I was dead. Was actually trapped in an underground cavern being tortured by a psychopath biker. He had some mixed-up notion about torturing me being some kind of revenge for his son hating him, or wanting to be biker royalty like his old man or some shit. Anywhose it, he was killed by what would be his now daughter in law. Many moons later, they found me, and here we are, hot-tubbing it in a stranger’s back yard with my wife and a kid who claims to be my brother.”
“Holy shit,” I say.
“Holy shit, indeed,” Preppy agrees.
I stand and reach into the cooler. I grab two beers and toss one to Preppy. My brother.
“I…I just can’t fucking believe that you’re alive. And that you’re here.” I can see the skepticism in my brother’s eyes, and I don’t even fucking care. Of course, he’s skeptical. He’s been through a ton of shit. I would be if I were him. But now that he’s alive, we’ve got time for him to trust me. And even though I just met him, I trust the motherfucker.
Shit, I trusted him before I ever met him.
“You and me both, kid.” Preppy opens his beer bottle using the edge of the table and takes a sip. “Speaking of people who are alive and shouldn’t be, any clue where dear old mama is? Crack den? Whorehouse? On tour with the Backstreet Boys?”
“Don’t know. Don’t fucking care.”
Preppy clinks his bottle to mine. “I’ll cheers to that, brother.”
Preppy stands. “I’m gonna take my wife home and service her,” he says. “Shall we continue this another time?”
“Yeah, man. I’d like that. Let me get your number,” I say pulling out my phone.
Before the screen is even up, Preppy is spewing his number. Five. Five. Five. Seven. Three. Nine. Seven. Seven. Three. Seven.
“Wait, hold on. I didn’t get it,” I say, finally pulling up the screen. “You said Five. Five. Five. Seven. Three. Nine. Seven. Seven. Three. Seven. Right?” I enter in the numbers in, and I realize something about the them or rather, what they spell. I look up to Preppy. “Wait, your number is 555-SEX-PREP?”