Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
It’s not breaking and entering if I’m payin’ to be here, is it?
Shrugging, I brace my hands on the windowsill, which is chest height.
“I’ve jumped over grown men on the playing field, so I can surely heave myself through here,” I boast arrogantly.
Confidence has never been a shortcoming of mine. It comes from growing up in Texas, on a ranch, and being given responsibility at a young age. We didn’t work the farm—my pop was a Super Bowl-winning Hall of Famer—but he owned the land and rented it out. Our massive home was smack dab in the middle of it all.
Stream running through it, cattle, horses, the whole shebang.
In my head, I count to three, feet pumping on the ground, ready to hitch my knee on the windowsill as soon as I get enough momentum.
One…two…
I make it on the first try—obviously—my large frame crammed into the opening. Climbing on top of the counter in front of the window, I narrowly miss the sink but jam my calf on the faucet.
“Fuck!” I curse, untangling myself, extending my legs to slide to the floor.
For whatever reason, I wipe my hands on the thighs of my jeans as if I’d just run a sprint or done an equally taxing task.
I flip on the light next to the window before unlocking it.
Listening for noises, I find the only sound coming from the television in a nearby room.
“Hello?”
Ducking through what appears to be the dining room, I find it empty as I’m expecting to, and call out again in the event someone has heard me and is hiding in the shadows to clock me on the skull with a frying pan or something.
Cast iron, no doubt, like I’ve seen in the movies.
“Hello?”
I flip on more lights as I go through the dining room to the little entry hall. Unlocking the front door, I pull it open and wheel my suitcase into the foyer before shutting it again.
“Bedroom must be upstairs…”
Don’t mind if I make myself at home, Posey, wherever you are.
I lift my suitcase and take the stairs by two on account of my long legs, looking this way and that, acclimating myself once I get to the top landing and find a small loft in front of me.
It’s cute, with a love seat and television, a bookcase and a coffee table.
“Does anyone actually sit up here?”
Seems like a waste of space to me, but then again, I grew up on a massive estate on a cattle ranch with more housekeepers than was necessary, which had more rooms than a family of six could possibly ever need.
There are four doors on this level, one of them closed.
Popping my head into the closest door next to me, I discover that it’s a bathroom. The next bedroom appears to be a spare bedroom, so that’s where I plug my suitcase, nudging it next to the dresser with the toe of my boot while flipping on the light at the same time.
I don’t bother settling in. Instead, I continue exploring.
There is another guest bedroom—or at least that’s what I assume it is. It doesn’t look like there are any personal items that would indicate someone is staying here. Bare walls and minimal decorations.
I do not hesitate to crack open the closed door, not bothering to knock, with the assumption that I will find it empty on the other side.
I’m wrong.
A desk that’s been placed in front of the window faces the door, and at that desk is a young woman. It takes her a few seconds to notice me, and when she does, the bloodcurdling scream that comes out of her throat actually has me ducking—as if she’s just hurled a vase in my direction.
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
It's pens and pencils, and they hit my arm like tiny swords before falling to the carpet.
“Whoa!” I hold my hands up defensively as if I expect something to come flying at my head. “Lady, what are you doin’?”
“What am I doing?” She screams for the second time, grappling for her phone, earbuds dangling from her lobes. “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
“I’m Duke,” I inform her calmly. “I live here.”
I’m staying here for a time, but I don’t see much of a difference between living and staying.
The young woman—Posey—has a bright red face and looks madder than a chicken caught in a rooster house, chest heaving, nostrils flaring.
“You do not live here!” She pauses. “Are you high? Are you lost? Oh my God, have you escaped from prison? Don’t come near me.”
Now she’s holding what looks like a letter opener in one hand, brandishing it like a knife as her wild eyes glance around, probably looking for mace.
Something.
Anything to spray in my face to blind me so she can escape.
“Duke Colter. Your friend…uh…” I rack my brain for the name of Eli’s girlfriend. Misty? Michelle. “Your friend…what’s her face? It begins with an M.”