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)
I’m too hungry to think about what I’ve just done. Or anything. I’ll think about it later, after my stomach is full.
I eat two of my three full-sized meals without even bothering to savor the taste. I pause before I begin my third and look around the diner. The rest stop is buzzing with people and not just truckers. A few of the small tables are overflowing with families. One family of five is wearing matching Disney World logo shirts in varying colors. They’re laughing and smiling while the mom and dad unfold a theme park map and happily point to the different attractions.
My stomach turns, and it’s not because of the meatloaf or the chicken fried steak I just inhaled. Another table nearby has an elderly couple. The man is sipping a cup of coffee while reading from an open newspaper on the table while his wife reads a romance novel. They aren’t speaking, but they’re holding hands across the table. Another couple is arguing while their baby cries until the wife covers her face with her hands. The husband gets out of his side of the booth and goes to her, removing her hands. Whatever he says to her makes her laugh, and they embrace before going back to their meals, staying on the same side of the booth while their baby finally stops screaming to suck on a bottle the man feeds it with his free hand.
Everyone has someone. Even the truckers who live a solitary life on the open road alone are gathered together at the counter chatting about gas prices and politics. I’m utterly alone. Always have been. And if I don’t find my brother, always will be.
I remove the picture from my pocket and unfold it. Samuel Clearwater. I say his name over and over in my head. Maybe, I didn’t miss out by never getting a chance to meet him. Maybe, he was a degenerate asshole just like my fucking mother. But I can’t help but to think What if? What if he wasn’t? What if he was amazing? What if he was funny and genuine, and…I stop. I can’t let myself think that. It makes it all so much worse. I fold the picture back up and shove it into my pocket.
He was probably an asshole.
But he did have a cool last name. At least, it was a fuck of a lot better than mine. Clearwater. My last name is Schmooter. More than likely given to me by our shared mother to honor whatever bastard she let come inside her. I make a decision. Asshole or not, I want to keep a piece of my brother with me, and the only thing I know about him is his name.
From this second on, I’m no longer Kevin Schmooter.
I’m Kevin Clearwater.
I hurry up and finish my third meal. Leaving a tip on the table, I grab my backpack and head over to the adjoining Quick Mart. I purchase a burner phone, and when I get out into the parking lot, I immediately dial Pike’s number, which is the only number I actually have memorized.
No answer.
Fuck.
Logan’s Beach is only ten miles away, and now, with a belly full of food, I’m sure I can manage the walk.
I only make it to the middle of the parking lot when I remember what I’d done to get that full stomach. The trucker. The…
All of the much-needed food in my gut comes back up again in a rush of regret, right there in the parking lot.
After I’m sure it’s passed, I wipe my mouth. Before I can even stand up straight, a thick pair of legs appear before me. I look up to find the trucker from earlier, glaring down at me. “I think you took something of mine.”
“I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about. We’re done here,” I say, stepping around him.
He grabs me by the arm just as another trucker, even bigger than him, comes out of the shadows and grabs my other arm. “This the kid?”
“Yeah, check his bag.”
He does and immediately finds the wallet.
Shit, mother fucking fuck. I should have tossed it in the diner, but decided to ponder my shitty life instead.
I tug at my arms, but it’s no use. These guys are massive. My backpack falls to the floor, and I hear my laptop break inside.
“Let me go, motherfuckers!” I spit, gnashing my teeth together, and I try and fail and again and again to fight them off. They smell of body odor and liquor. My stomach jumps again at the stench.
“What kind of fun would that be? Kid, we’re just gettin’ started,” the man I ripped off cackles as they tug me deep into the shadows of the parking lot.
I lose both of my sneakers trying to get a grip on the pavement. But it’s no use. They’re too big, and I’m too small and too weak. They shove me into the cab of the truck and gag me with a rag that smells like motor oil. I try to push away and lunge for the door, but I’m knocked on the side of my head by something hard.