Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“I was gonna clean it up, I swear. I just—”
“Anyhow, I’m back, so you can head on home where you likely wanna be anyway. Wash yourself up.” He clicks his tongue. “Wash twice. I can smell last night’s mistakes all over you, Anthony.” The man heads inside.
The clerk, Anthony, snatches up his vest and tank, then stabs me with his glowering eyes. “Hope you enjoy your twenty bucks of gas. I’m walkin’ away with five bucks of it dripping outta my damn underwear thanks to you.”
“It was a mistake. That’s all. I didn’t mean to—”
“Have a lovely day, asshole.” He marches back to the building, but stops when his jeans fall halfway to his knees, forgetting that he unzipped them, apparently. He continues on like he couldn’t care less, nearly tripping himself as he struggles to tug them back up over his ass cheeks, then slips through the door.
My heart still pounds with something between rage and total confusion long after he’s gone. So Anthony’s his name. My eyes drop to where he stood. That sticker on his ass is now on the ground by my feet. I pick it up and stare at the red smiley with the tongue sticking out, pensive, scowling. The car window slides down next to me, and Pete’s bored face appears. “Yo, Bridge, what’s taking so long? My ass is falling asleep.”
2
BRIDGER
It’s more beautiful than I expected honestly. The house, large and in good condition, two stories tall, painted in creams with warm rose-brown trimming and brick accents, sits proudly on the corner of an intersection on the edge of town. Its big wraparound porch makes the house look like a mother hen squatting in a nest, and between a cluster of pruned fig trees to the left and a huge tree in the center with long, sprawling branches, the front lawn is shaded generously. Pete keeps changing his mind on whether or not he’s ready to go inside while I stand by the curb admiring the assortment of healthy, colorful tulips in the front flowerbed, my eyes stuck on the big white cross sticking out of its center.
I’m trying not to think about a certain gas station attendant.
And the way he got right up in my face, calling me a jack-off wagon, a psychopath—whatever other ridiculous shit he said.
I can’t stop thinking about it. My mind is stuck there, with our faces in front of each other, his intense blue eyes, his wet hair, this weird twitch his mouth was doing as he scowled at me.
How did I let that jerk get under my skin so easily? That guy rubbed me wrong the second I met him. I usually pride myself in respecting others. I understand how to treat people. Even the lady at the hotel who kept hitting on me, I stayed respectful. I was a gentleman. I didn’t torment her or call her a jack-off wagon.
But I lost myself with that guy. I gave in. Bit back spitefully.
That doesn’t feel good, whether I thought he deserved it or not. It feels downright shitty, how all of that went down, and it’s been eating at me every minute since we left that gas station.
It’s my number one rule, to treat others the way I expect to be treated myself. Respect. Empathy. Dignity. Compassion.
What the fuck got into me back there?
“You should’ve just clocked him right in the jaw for getting in your face like that,” says Pete, appearing at my side like Houdini, now also pretending to admire tulips, while I continue to secretly obsess over the blue-eyed wonder at the fuel pump.
Wait a sec. “You mean you heard all that back there?”
“Of course I did. I was in the car.”
My jaw clenches up. “You sat there … lounging in the driver’s seat … the whole time I dealt with that douchebag?”
“Or you could have bent him over the fuel pump instead and, y’know, pumped him in your own way.” Pete chuckles at his own joke, then jabs an elbow into my side. “I felt the sexual tension.”
“There was no sexual tension.”
“Told you. Everyone hits on you. Everyone, everywhere. Even sleepy-eyed gas station attendants in bad moods.” When he sees the angry look on my face, he sighs. “Lighten up, you’re always too serious. It’s probably why all of that happened in the first place.”
“So it’s my fault? I’m not too serious.”
Pete slaps his hat back onto his head. “You’re gonna fuck that guy someday.” Then he strolls up the curvy pathway to the house, I guess having gathered his courage by taunting me.
It’s by the front door that we hear the yelling inside. Pete and I exchange a look. He gives the door a tentative knock. The yelling continues. He gives a more confident knock, trying to interrupt it. Still nothing. Just when he decides to give up and head back to the car, I test the front door and find it unlocked. “We can’t just go in!” hisses Pete, and I don’t know if it’s my mood or the fact that the image of bending a sweaty Anthony over that century-old fuel pump now infests my brain, but I let myself in anyway, heedless to Pete’s protests.