Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Eventually the woman had fallen asleep—or into a drug-induced stupor—and slunk to the ground in a heap. Jett had searched her pockets and come away with three crumpled dollars and some change. It wasn’t enough to buy any dope, so he’d taken it to the McDonald’s up the block. All the money would buy him was a hash brown that he wolfed down in two bites before opening the paper pack and licking the grease off the inside.
But now he had fifty bucks in his pocket from sitting on a velvet sofa and answering questions about his shitty life.
Physical or sexual?
Jett tripped on the curb, almost falling but catching himself. Something hot and acidic shot through his limbs, making them feel both energized and singed. He shuddered and stuck both hands in his pockets and then removed them almost as quickly. Maybe he’d call that interviewer dude and tell him he’d changed his mind. He didn’t want that interview aired. But in any case, he’d answered the guy’s questions and gotten paid for it. He needed some smack, and he had the money to buy it. A few droplets of relief cooled the inner burn. He could practically taste the illegal mix of chemicals that he’d snort or shoot the minute he had them in hand.
“Hey, Jett.”
He turned to see a prostitute named Dawn, wearing a silver sequined dress that barely covered her crotch, wobbling toward him on her ridiculously high heels. “Wanna party?”
“No.” He had no interest in what Dawn was offering, and he didn’t have time for her bullshit either. He’d smoked with her a couple of times, and she’d gone on and on about how she got left some money from a relative and then had it stolen from her. She never stopped talking about that. She was like a broken record that just kept replaying the same fucked-up song over and over. It was boring as shit and gave him a headache.
What he wanted to tell her was that it didn’t matter that someone had stolen her money. If that someone hadn’t, she would have lost it anyway. People like them didn’t know how to keep good things. That money never had a chance in hell of saving her or changing her life or whatever she imagined it might have done. People like them squandered anything of value. Knowing didn’t help him change it, and he couldn’t have even expressed those thoughts in words. But he knew it was true. He fucking did. And yet he still wanted. Still craved. And maybe if he’d have ever had anything of value and lost it, he’d be talking about it constantly too.
Jett picked up his speed, easily ditching Dawn, and turned the corner, onto the street where he knew he could score. A car backfired, and Jett startled, blood pressure spiking as he almost tripped again. A little boy in a faded red T-shirt appeared from behind a dumpster at the entrance to an alley. Jett sucked in a breath and jerked to a stop. Oh no. Oh no. The kid’s eyes were glued to him, expression somber, as he walked toward the street where cars were whizzing by. Their eyes held, and Jett stood frozen, his muscles seized up. No! “No,” Jett whispered, but he wasn’t sure if he’d said the word or not. No, no, no! His nerves vibrated and then burst into flames. He yelped, and a woman walking by him on the street jumped aside and then hurried on.
The boy was almost at the curb, about to step into moving traffic. No, please. Jett flung himself forward and ran into the street, arms outstretched as a car swerved, brakes screeching, as Jett barely avoided being hit.
The world grew unbearably bright so that Jett could hardly see. His nerves flamed, scorching the underside of his skin, and he raised his arm to shield his eyes.
The little boy was walking toward him, too, and even from the distance and through the overwhelming brightness, Jett could see the tear rolling down his cheek and the purple marks around his neck.
A car came barreling forward, and Jett screamed as it hit the little boy, rolling him under its wheel and flipping the kid upside down like a rag doll. He landed on the street. Jett’s scream continued as he went down next to the kid, attempting to pick him up as more brakes screeched and two cars collided next to him in a cacophony of intense impact and scraping metal.
“What the hell? What are you doing? Holy shit!” A man’s voice. “Are you fucking crazy?”
Jett trembled so violently his teeth chattered, clutching the little boy’s body. But then there was a hand on his arm, pulling him up. He reeled and stumbled, trying desperately to get his bearings as he held on to the boy. “The boy, the boy,” he repeated, his voice a dusty whisper.