Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
“Sure. Where?”
I studied her for a second, knowing damn well that there was a shitstorm brewing inside her. Max. Dale… I could tell her eight hundred times that those guys were assholes, but it wouldn’t matter. She had probably punched Dale because she was angry. And she had every damn right to be, but beating that dipshit wasn’t enough. Not for Max and Jerry and her sorry excuse for a mom.
Without answering her, I pushed up from the chair and climbed down the ladder. I went to Wolf’s door and knocked. “Open up, shithead.”
He cracked it half an inch, the security chain catching when he peeked out. “This better be good. I was watching Porn Hub.”
“Can I get your bat?”
He shrugged and walked off, coming back a few seconds later with an aluminum Louisville Slugger.
Monroe jumped from the ladder, lifting a brow at the bat. “Do I want to know?”
“Probably not.”
I parked behind Shit Shack; then, we headed across the street to the junkyard. I tucked the Slugger into the back of my jeans and scaled the fence.
“Is this where you kill me and hide my body in the trunk of some scrap metal?” Monroe asked, staring at me from the other side of the chain links.
“Maybe.”
She quickly climbed up, slinging a leg over before she jumped, landing on her feet beside me.
“So, you think I’m gonna kill you, but you’re still here, huh?”
“Yeah, well, I trust you.”
And that...made me feel like I was worth something to her. And I liked it and hated it at the same time.
I headed through the piles of old washers and refrigerators, rounding mounds of dented fenders before we came to a stop. Staring at the heap of junk in front of me, I pulled the bat from my jeans and passed it over to her. “Windows and headlights are the most rewarding.”
She looked from the bat in her hand to me. “You want me to hit things?”
“Hitting shit always makes me feel better.” I pulled a cigarette from my pocket, lit it, then leaned against the bumper of a Chevy Silverado.
“Pretty sure hitting Dale did that,” she said, lifting the bat before she swung at the front windshield. Glass shattered, and she moved onto the passenger side window.
“Don’t lie to yourself, Monroe.” It took a lot more than hitting one person to purge those emotions.
She made her way around the car, and with each smashed pane of glass and dented panel, I knew the anger had to be bleeding through her.
“Feels good, huh?” I snatched a rusted muffler from the ground, then took a swing at a Toyota’s hood. I thought about my mom and the guy who had never paid his dues when it came to her. And I swung again.
“Fine.” She punched the end of the bat through a headlight. “I admit it. I’m angry.” She put a few dents in the car, then stopped to look at me. “What are you mad about?” she asked through heavy pants.
And wasn’t that a loaded question. “A lot of things,” I said.
“Like what?”
I smashed the muffler through a windshield. Cubes of glass sprayed in every direction. Some vulnerabilities are better kept to oneself. Which is why it shocked the shit out of me when I said, “My mom.”
“I…” Monroe stilled, tapping the bat against the ground. “How did she die?” she whispered, so quiet, I barely heard it. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said in a rush.
I took a few more swings, this time, at the door of the car. I beat the thing until my arms ached and sweat beaded my forehead. The one thing I didn’t want to talk about was that—just like I figured, the one thing she didn’t want to talk about was Jerry.
But she had.
“Some asshole beat her to death.” And then I rammed the muffler through the hood. No one but Hendrix knew that.
Her chin met her chest. “Of course.” The words were a mumbled affirmation. Pieces clicked together in her mind. “Did they find the guy?”
I closed my eyes. Counted to ten. And I told myself, Roe was only asking because she cared, and I should appreciate that. “He was Barrington.” I could hear my pulse in my ears.
I stared at the demolished car; the silence that stretched between us seemed like an eternity. Because she knew what that meant. That the guy got off because of his name. Because of his money. Because my mother was worthless compared to him—to everyone except Hendrix and me.
Her hand brushed my shoulder before her arms wrapped around my waist, her chin pressing to my shoulder. And goddamn, that broke me. I buried my face in her neck. Monroe was making herself a lifeline, and I was fucked.
“That’s shit, Zepp.”
“It’s just life, Monroe.”
22
Monroe
Warm breaths trickled over my neck before I slowly pulled away from him. Zepp was hard, the way only someone who was truly broken could be. Now I knew why, and it caused a twinge of pain to tug at my heart.