Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38855 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38855 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
I’ve jerked off more this last five or so days than I have in the last five years. My dick is raw because my palm is calloused and rough as sandpaper. Still, that hasn’t stopped me from spending myself nearly a dozen times a day.
Sorry, Mom. Your virgin son will never give you grandkids because his dick fell off.
We make our way into town and thank fuck the subject changes to small town gossip. I could give a fuck really, small mountain town has big ears and bigger mouths.
Marshall is a deputy with the sheriff’s department, so he always has more intel than most. And, for some reason, he loves to share it with me. His way of broadening my horizons, I guess.
I rub the back of my hand over my forehead, trying to keep my mind clear, then run it back to grip my neck, trying to ease the tension. Whatever this is that’s got me has my head screwed up.
“Booker’s going to be crazy about the chair. It’s wicked good.” Marshall glances over his shoulder into the bed of the truck, then back to me. “You say you’re going up to the Emmett land later?”
Booker is the town sheriff and a friend of us both.
I nod. “Yeah. Finally got that old fucker to let me do a scout lease. Only gave me twenty-four hours to get up there and get the contract signed. Cost me, too, but hoping it will pay out. After I drop you and the chair, gonna go say hi to Beverly. She’s as bad as you. Mom calls her once a week, checking up on me. Looking for intel you might not have, I guess. But, after that, yeah, I’m headed up. Can’t waste any time. Old fucker could change his mind any second.”
I picked Marshall up a few hours ago, to help me safely load my latest creation for transport. He helps me out now and then with both my work and other projects.
Made him a kick ass omelet and Belgian waffles for breakfast, in thanks for his help, since he won’t take any money. He generally works the afternoon shift, so I’ll drop him at the station and he can help me offload the chair the Sheriff commissioned for his girlfriend, Beverly.
My main business is hunting for and re-selling burl wood, which is actually a lucrative gig. It keeps me in the woods which is where I want to be. But besides that, I create one of a kind furniture, other artsy sort of sculptures, and whatever else strikes me out of the burls I find and decide not to re-sell. I haven’t chased that part of the business, but I get enough word of mouth that it’s become a thriving sideline for me. I ship things all over the country, even to Europe a couple times.
“Chair turned out better than I expected.” Marshall gives me a look. “Who would have thought a fuck like you had that sort of talent?”
"Whatever. You keep yanking my chain like that you’re gonna walk the rest of the way. With a limp.”
He shrugs. “Beverly will be happy. She’s wanted one of your pieces since you showed at the fair last summer. Been dropping hints to Booker...”
Between the burls and the leased oil wells that run on my property, in spite of myself, I’ve managed to make a pretty fucking good living and never have to put on a suit or tie.
Better than good, to tell the truth. Not the one percent good, but my bank account balances have a couple commas in and I have hardly any use for the money, so it just keeps piling up.
There certainly are worse problems to have, and I’m grateful every day.
It takes me a moment to find a parking spot in the precinct parking lot, which isn’t much more than a scrap of asphalt adjacent to the building. The town’s two police cruisers, and the vehicles belonging to the Sheriff, his deputies and civilian staff, are already taking up most of the space, along with some shitty light blue Buick which is parked on the yellow line taking up two spots.I pull my truck in at an angle, trying not to block the exit for the cruisers, and then head with Marshall over to the building.
We step into the lobby, and I wave at Martha, the dispatcher. If you need to know anything in town, and she happens to like you, she’s the epicenter of information. She waves back, giving me a wink. She and my mother were friends most of the years my parents were here, and I know they still talk regularly.
She’s on the phone as I pass, so I lean down and just give her a quick peck on the cheek. She reaches up and squeezes my chin, pulling my beard and pushing my lips together like some crazy aunt with red lipstick and bad breath, before waving me away to follow Marshall toward the Sheriff’s office in back.