Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 85183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Jude's eyes narrow, and his jaw drops. He points at Marney. "Did he fucking..." he turns to face him, "Did you fucking know, old man?" Jude swats his hand over the top of his head. "You fucking told Marney, and not me? Goddamn it, Tor!"
"I didn't tell him; he overheard me!" I defend before he kicks the shit out of Marney. Ridiculous? Yes, but this is Jude.
"Overheard you? Who the fuck else knows?"
I glance at Marney, and his eyes are full of pity. I drop my gaze to the kitchen floor, and neither of us says anything.
"Who else knows?" Jude no longer sounds angry, he sounds hurt.
"No one," my voice breaks. I feel a hand rub my shoulder and look up to find Marney standing next to me, angling his body between me and Jude.
Marney takes a deep breath, squeezing my shoulder as he says, "Found her pouring her little heart out at Caleb's grave."
Jude's face crumples and he hangs his head. There's a tense silence, and then I watch his shoulders fall before he makes his way to the hallway. "No fucking smoking around her," he demands before disappearing into a room.
I watch him go, my emotions swinging from anger to pity and back again. Marney puts an arm around my shoulder and guides me to one of the stools at the breakfast bar. "Sit down, sweetheart. I'll make you a tuna melt."
I'm pretty sure Marney can't cook, but I don't argue. I fold my arms on the bar and rest my cheek on them. I just don't understand why Jude has to be so impossible. I guess I always knew I would have to tell him, and I always knew he would be crazy protective, that he wouldn't let me get the revenge I so desperately need. Maybe I was in the wrong, but he's just proved me right. There's no way he's going to let me go after Joe now, and without that... without it, I don't know what to do.
Marney puts a glass of water in front of me and grabs a pan from under the stove. I listen to the sound of him shuffling around the little space. Eventually, he places a plate on the counter. A slightly burnt piece of bread topped with some canned tuna.
"Thanks." I pick up a fork and take a mouthful of food. I have no appetite. I never do.
Marney goes back to reading his paper, but I can feel him watching me. At least he's subtle I suppose, unlike fucking Jude.
"Tuna melts ain't no good cold," he says as he turns a page.
I fight a smile and take another mouthful.
If I'm going to have to take six more months of the Neanderthal, at least I have Marney.
Jude leaves, angry at me, and I guess I can't really blame him. The rest of the day drags on, and Jude doesn't come back. I go to bed alone. I don't like sleeping alone. It's as though my own mind can sense it, and the nightmares are just waiting for me the moment I close my eyes.
The door slams shut behind me, and I climb into the car, crank the engine, and drive off. I probably shouldn't leave like this, but I am pissed, and I just need some fucking time to think about it.
I find a bar at the base of the mountains. The parking lot is nearly empty. I guess not that many people here like to get hammered in the middle of the day, which serves me just fine. The little bell jingles as I open the door, and I walk directly to the bar to take a seat.
There's a college-aged girl drying glasses behind the counter. When she looks over at me, her gaze drags seductively down my face, over my shoulders, and down my arms. She bites her lip as she smiles. Fuck. I am not in the mood for this.
She saunters over and slings the bar towel over her shoulder. "What does a man like you drink?" she giggles.
"Just put some ice in a glass and some whiskey. I don't care what kind. You just watch me, and when it gets empty, give me another."
She wrinkles her nose. "Wow, you're so gnarly. What's got you all angry?" She reaches underneath the counter and pulls up a glass, then turns to grab the bottle of whiskey.
I groan. "Just get me my drink. I'm not in here for fucking therapy." I pull my wallet from my pocket and slam it on the counter.
She shrugs as she slides the full glass across the bar top to me. "Want to start a tab?"
"No, I'm paying with cash."
She rings up my drink and then thankfully leaves me the fuck alone, and goes back to drying the glasses.
I take a long sip, set the drink down, and drag my hand down my face. I shift on the stool as I rhythmically run my thumb along the curved edge of the glass. Pregnant. Fuck.