Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
I’m assuming Rooster’s mom wouldn’t give me speed for breakfast.
The change in my behavior has already been noticed, and I need to act normal if I’m to avoid answering uncomfortable questions. So shower it is, and then I need to show myself around the settlement, no matter how little I want to interact with anyone while sober.
I make another attempt to call Clyde, but when that brings me no closure, I shed my clothes and head to the bathroom. The icy water makes me shiver, but in time, I get used to its temperature. The rivulets sliding over my skull and rolling down my sweaty skin feel good, refreshing, but as I rest my forehead against the wall, my one night at Clyde’s place comes right back, and I see myself on my knees, swallowing his cock, and him holding on to my shoulders.
The memory stabs through me, soon turning into a dull ache that has me questioning whether I should have ever approached him for sex in the first place. Back in the hospital, he visited my room to silence me, I’m certain of it, but things settled down after that, and our dying wishes could have been forgotten. But no, I decided to go after the guy whose brother I tortured and killed, like some fucking psycho.
What the hell was I thinking?
I probably wasn’t. The possibility of having him was too tantalizing. The long hair, the strong, tattooed body, the ice-blue eyes, and cocky smirks… And now I’m in over my head, it’s no longer about getting to nail his dimpled ass, and I’ve got no idea how to handle my feelings.
I’ve never gotten like this about any of the few women I’ve slept with, so I assumed that’s who I am. Easygoing and horny, aloof and in it for an orgasm.
Now look at me. An absolute fucking wreck because a guy won’t like me back.
I knock my head against the tiles with a groan, but I don’t get to wallow in self-pity much longer, because the ringing of my phone pulls me out. Deep down, I know it’s not Clyde, but I still run to pick up the call as if my life depends on it.
It’s not him, of course, but one never rejects calls from club brothers so I pick up.
I don’t know why I expected this day to keep floating like a drunken whale, but I have a role in the settlement—as well as the club—and I can’t neglect it just because I’m sad. Problem is, I feel like shit, and I cannot be the enforcer everyone needs me to be if I end up falling over on the way to discipline a thief.
My mind made up, I grab the pot of artificial flowers standing on one of the shelves and remove the small packet of coke from the secret compartment inside it. I might have been overindulging a bit since the fiasco with Clyde, but who doesn’t sometimes? The world won’t stop simply because I want it to.
I shove old dishes to the middle of the table and eyeball the dust before dividing it into two lines. The rest of it goes right back into the fake plant, so that none of the cats get any stupid ideas, but then I’m breathing in the powdered rush, and the sting in my nose makes me jerk back so fast I nearly fall over on my ass. It hasn’t kicked in yet, but it should by the time I’m ready to face the music in the caves.
I keep heading for the door, only to realize I’ve forgotten something, but once I have my gun, my favorite knife, keys, mints, and a bottle of cold water, I leave behind my home and head down the hill. I know people have been talking behind my back, and likely coming up with the weirdest explanations for the shift in my mood. The best I can do is act as if nothing happened, so everyone moves on. I don’t need pity. I don’t need pats on the back, or encouraging words.
My whole relationship with Clyde happened in the dark, as far away from normal life as we could get, and whatever happens, I will deal with it the same way. On my own.
A whistle comes from a bench I’m passing, and its sharp, high-pitched sound is like a nail hammered deep in my skull. I suck in air to scold whoever’s disturbing my last moments of peace, but when I raise my head, I see Isaac watching me from behind a tattoo magazine. He’s been growing a mustache that looks quite attractive on him, and combined with a white tank top, it makes him resemble the men drawn by Tom of Finland. Which is something I can’t share with him, of course, because what straight guy would know anything about that?