Series: Sean Moriarty
Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 113805 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113805 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Everything of worth, everything little thing I cherished and valued, was gone before I got home from school.
I thought I left all of that behind when I married Kyle. Left behind the nights of not knowing where I was going to sleep or what I was going to eat.
Safety.
All I wanted was safety for once in my damn life.
And yet I’m right back here, with a baby…
Uncle Mickey’s building, like most of the other buildings around here, was probably built in the late 1800s. At the time it was built, it was no doubt considered a luxurious mansion.
Now it’s dilapidated and home to a shady businessman.
Stopping in front of the door, I take a second to note that someone slapped on a fresh coat of red paint but didn’t bother to fix the cracked window.
Before I can pull open the door, a man barges out, bringing a thick cloud of cigar smoke with him. I manage to dodge the door in time but fail to dodge him.
He doesn’t even glance at me. Muttering to himself, his face tight with anger, he shoulders me out of his way, nearly spinning me completely around in a circle.
Any other day, any other place, I’d give him a piece of my mind. I’d chew him out for pushing a lady holding a baby.
But I know better than to piss off anyone dealing with Uncle Mickey.
Not unless I want to risk getting a knife shoved between my ribs.
Uncle Mickey’s clients and employees are unscrupulous, at best.
At worst, they’re scum of the earth. Willing to scam, steal, and kill to make a buck.
I watch the man walk down the street for a few heartbeats, just making sure he’s not planning on coming back, then shake off the encounter.
Pulling open the door, I step inside.
The foyer is empty and unlit, but from the light coming from deeper inside I can see a billion tiny specks of dust floating around.
The air is musty and reeks of cigar smoke. I doubt Uncle Mickey has cleaned a thing in years. And he sure as hell wouldn’t hire a maid, too much of a liability.
I used to clean for him when I was little, I remember as I move through the foyer.
He used to pat me on the head, call me a good girl, and pay me in candy.
But that was also during the meetings he was having with Dad. Meetings I knew nothing about at the time.
Squeezing Abel a little tighter, I round the corner and find Uncle Mickey exactly where I expected to find him. Lounging back on the old, brown leather couch in the living room, puffing on a cigar.
He doesn’t work out of an office because technically he doesn’t work. He just talks to people and things happen.
At least that’s his story.
Personally, I think he’s too lazy to comfortably sit behind a desk.
I take him in, searching for the harsh changes of time. His brown hair is thinner and his combover is way more obvious, but that’s the extent of it.
Otherwise he seems mostly unchanged, which is disappointing.
I’m not sure what I expected to find. Someone older, for sure, and perhaps more broken. Touched in some way by grief. But it seems my father’s death didn’t do shit to him.
Not like it did to me.
If anything, he may have gained a couple of pounds, but it’s hard to tell because he’s always been a big guy.
Abel sneezes and stirs, finally waking up from his little nap, drawing Mickey’s attention.
“Eden,” Mickey says in surprise and accidentally drops his cigar in his lap.
I lift both brows, waiting for him to realize what he’s done.
“Fuck!” he finally shouts after a couple of seconds and jumps up, patting frantically at his pants.
Watching him bumble about, knocking the stuff on his coffee table off with his ass when he bends over to pick up the cigar, should be hilarious.
But I don’t feel any joy.
I want to see him suffer. I hope to god he burned his damn balls, but my mood is too black to find any of this funny.
I just want to get this shit over with.
“Fuck. Shit. Fuck!” Uncle Mickey says as he straightens and starts stomping on the carpet.
Abel tugs on my hair to get my attention.
I turn my head to smile reassuringly at him just as a tall, bald man comes barreling into the room from the kitchen.
“What’s wrong, boss?” the man asks.
Head swirling around the room, searching for the threat, the bald man’s eyes land on me.
I stiffen as his hand drops to his waist, ready to pull on me.
“Nothing. I dropped my fucking cigar,” Mickey says grumpily, and plunks said cigar in a glass ashtray that looks like it’s straight out of the seventies.
“Oh, okay.” The bald man’s shoulders relax and his fingers pull away from the gun at his hip.