Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 72756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“Did I fucking stutter?”
“No, no! Fine. Go ahead.” He turns to the guys. “Let them take it.”
They jump away without a fight. The shithead supervisor might be eager to get fucked up, but they're obviously not getting paid enough to deal with angry bikers.
The supervisor backs up too, but Devil holds up a hand. “Hold it. We need a fourth so that it's even.” I nod my head towards the back of the casket while I take my position up front. Preacher stands across from me and Devil behind, making it obvious where I want the supervisor.
“What? I don't—”
“You do now. Move it.” He gets the picture. “On three. One, two, three!”
And then we're carrying my mother into her funeral. It’s heavier than I thought it would be. This is fucking surreal.
Two ushers stand by the doors gawking at us like idiots. “Open up or get the fuck out of the way.” They don’t move fast enough. Preacher and I kick the doors open. A mic must pick up the crash because it echoes through the enormous room and every fucking eye in the place is on us.
Good.
So many fucking people, and at the end stands Aaron, looking like someone just shoved a lemon up his ass. My fist tightens on the casket's handle, but my lips twist into a pleased smirk. The fucker's furious, and I can’t wait to see how he’s going to spin this in front of his little fan club.
Behind him stands Summer.
I'd thought there was no way she could live up to my memories of her, but my wildest imagination couldn't have fucking done her justice.
She looks like a fucking obedient Stepford wife, but she grew up fucking hot.
4
SUMMER
Time stops.
In the packed hall, the only two people in the universe are the man who calls himself Crash, and me. Frozen behind Dad, I watch my step-brother come closer and closer, step by step, carrying Vivian’s casket with his hazel eyes locked on me. Somewhere along the line I convinced myself that my teenage obsession was based on shared pain and being trapped in the same house, but the man he’s become calls me every bit as hard.
His chest is broad and his shoulders wide under his leather jacket. His jaw has squared off with a vicious scar over the chin. A tattoo peeks out at his neck from under the black T-shirt stretching over his powerful chest, and he's shaved his head. Scuffed jeans hug his muscular thighs, falling down straight over black motorcycle boots. The wiry teenager I shared whispered dreams and one forbidden kiss with has grown up.
Boy, has he grown up. And he’s brought friends. Carrying the casket with him are two more men that look cut from the exact same mold despite being very different. Are they in the same gang or something? Some guys in our church rock band wear leather jackets and one even has his ear pierced, but they look like kids playing dress up compared to these men.
Crash winks and it’s like getting hit by lightning. Scars, tattoos and leather fall away, because when he looks at me like that, I'm back in our yard, reeling from our first and only kiss, touching my lips like I can't convince myself it was real. Two weeks until my fifteenth birthday, and thinking Crash—Jacob—at sixteen-going-on-seventeen was so grown up and mature. A shiver rushes through me, forcing out a gasp. Just like when I pulled away from him back then, my lips burning.
A low buzz begins far back in the audience, spreading forwards as they carry Vivian in. Some of those who have been in the congregation for a long time might remember when Dad married a beautiful single mother and took on the role of father for her troubled son. They might even have heard rumors about how that son ran away and didn’t get sent away to military school like Dad tried to claim. But I doubt a single person in here connects that boy with one of the men coming down the aisle now alongside a terrified looking guy who’s probably the only one supposed to be there.
Their boots echo on the hard floor as Crash and the others take the final steps to the marble plinth for the casket. The whole Hall is simmering with excited whispers. Dad's expression is stony, but there's a vein visibly pulsing in his neck. He's absolutely furious. I know he wants to explode, but he can't, not in front of everyone, not at his own stepson.
And it’s all being broadcast live to the greater metropolitan area and on our website.
They lower the casket into place. As soon as it's stable, Dad's guy lets go and makes a break for it. I don't blame him. Crash and his friends are pretty imposing.