Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“I’ll be fine.”
Charles let me off the phone a few minutes later.
I spent the afternoon doing yardwork. Sweat dripped into my eyes, down the side of my face, making me sticky, but I didn’t go inside despite the suffocating humidity. It was after six when I had my shower, then ordered dinner from the local diner. If it was left up to me to cook today, I wouldn’t eat. I wasn’t in the mood for it.
I plucked out a bottle of water from the fridge. There was a six-pack of beer on the back of the top shelf that I never drank, but not much else. I turned on the TV for background noise, then sat at the table with my laptop in front of me, reading headlines about the case and everyone’s opinions who thought I was guilty.
It was almost seven by the time there was a knock on the front door.
The second I slid the door open, a frown curled my lips.
“Wow,” Sam said, “that was quick. You really don’t like me, do ya? I put you in a bad mood in about a second and a half.” He grinned, but I didn’t. Still, my pulse rapped a faster beat against my skin.
“I don’t know you.”
“I’m not sure you know anyone in town, which is just strange. Everyone knows everyone. Mention my name, and not a person in Ryland doesn’t know some story or other about me. The most popular one was when I was eight and decided to run away. I packed a backpack full of individual bags of Doritos—no clothes, flashlight, water, or anything. Just Cool Ranch Doritos. They found me in the woods, crying from an upset stomach, with about twenty-five empty chip bags around me. Not sure why we’d had so many at home in the first place. Everyone seems to like that story.”
The thing was, everything he said came out so honest, so natural, I thought this was something he might tell anyone, not just me. He wasn’t trying to be funny or cute, but he was both those things. “Cool Ranch?” I found myself asking.
“Yeah, nacho cheese is my favorite, but they’re Mom’s favorite too.”
So at eight years old, he’d run away from home and left his favorite chips behind because he knew it was what his mom liked? That was different. Most people didn’t think that way, didn’t put others first. Eight-year-old kids definitely didn’t typically think that way. I was a grown-ass man and struggled doing the same thing.
“It might not sound like it, but eatin’ twenty-five bags of Doritos is torture. I thought I’d die. I can’t eat Cool Ranch to this day.”
“Sounds traumatic.”
He grinned. “You’re talkin’ to me.” Yes, I was, wasn’t I? I immediately sobered, and Sam laughed. “Ah, man. I ruined it. I need to learn when to keep my big mouth shut. I’ve heard that a lot, but the message don’t seem to stick.”
Jesus, this kid was…hell, I couldn’t figure out a word to describe him. He was fresh-faced and innocent. Honestly seemed to enjoy talking to people and being friendly. But I could see the way he looked at me, could see the desire reflected in his gaze. He interested me when nothing had since the day I’d woken up where I’d passed out on the sofa, went into the bedroom, and discovered my boyfriend had been murdered.
Twenty-two stab wounds.
Crime of passion.
I didn’t want to be interested in anything, wasn’t sure I had the right, but still I asked, “Just how many jobs do you have?”
“Right now, three. The food thing is only for a couple of weeks.”
“Mail delivery, food delivery, and…”
His face turned a light pink, like the beginning of a North Carolina sunset. Instead of answering, he said, “You’re still talkin’ to me.”
“So it would appear. I’ll take my food now.”
“The steps are loose on your porch. The middle two.”
“I’ll take my food now,” I repeated.
Sam shook his head, as if I were a child and he didn’t quite know what to do with me. I couldn’t say it was a look I was familiar with getting from someone, especially a man his age. Sam handed it over. He still wore the same ring, his thumbnail still black. Our fingers brushed, and the pink in his cheeks darkened. Christ, this kid needed to get the hell out of this town, find somewhere he could be himself, explore and experiment with men and live his life.
“What do you call a pig who does karate?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“A pig who does karate. What do you call him?”
I frowned. “Is this a Southern thing I’m supposed to understand?”
Sam chuckled. “Nope.”
“I give up.”
“A pork chop,” he answered, and I rolled my eyes. “Wow, I got ya to smile.”
“Luck,” I replied. The door was almost shut when he spoke again.