Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
A second or two before I’d flicked on the flashlight, I heard a dog barking, and sure enough, it was Cliff’s shaggy little Ziggy.
As I descended the stoop steps, I shifted the light so I could—never mind. I saw a man on the ground farther in. Curled up like that, he could be drunk or high off his ass, he could be asleep, he could be dead, or he could be ready to pounce.
“What’re you doin’ here, Zig?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the man. This was no sneak attack on my part; I wanted the man to hear my voice.
Ziggy barked again, tail wagging, and he ran over to the man.
I approached more cautiously. “Is everything okay here, sir?” Or ma’am? I supposed it could be, but I was playing the odds here, and it would be a very, very large ma’am.
Ziggy had zero qualms and even licked the man’s face, which caused a reaction. Good, he was awake. He grunted something and batted Ziggy away, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say the dog was anxious. He wouldn’t leave the man’s side.
I came to a stop some seven feet away, and I dimmed the light just a bit. The man didn’t pose an immediate threat, so there was no need to blind him. But—nuh-uh. It wasn’t him. Was it? No. This guy had a beard. He was scrunching his face together and his beanie was pulled down to his eyes, but it couldn’t be.
Oh, I’d fucking kill him.
I took a couple steps closer, and I cursed to myself. That parka looked exactly like the one I’d given Ben.
“Go away,” he slurred, his voice thick with raspy disuse.
Ben wasn’t a drunk. It couldn’t be him.
I breathed a sigh of relief and closed the distance some more, and Ziggy wagged his tail faster, as if rescue had arrived. The question now was, did someone need rescuing?
“Sir, can I call someone for you?” I asked. “A new twenty-four-seven shelter just opened up over there by—”
“No,” he croaked.
I frowned. Something about his voice was off, and it still reminded me too much of Ben.
I noticed he was shaking, and I wondered if he was sick.
Fuck it. I had to do something. I couldn’t leave him like this. So if he wouldn’t come inside, I’d have to call an ambulance. Having spring around the corner didn’t mean it was warm, and if he was sick or going through withdrawal…
I made a second attempt to get a look on his face, and I squatted down a couple feet away from him.
Motherfucker.
I clenched my jaw, a storm of a million thoughts and emotions surging up within. It fucking was him. What’re you doing back here, asshole? Had he started using? That seemed unlikely. You’re here. I don’t have to wonder if you’re dead. You’re alive. I swallowed hard. Now you can fuck off again, ’cause you fucking hurt me, you fucking piece of shit. Great, I’d boarded the crazy train.
Since it was him, I lost my patience, not to mention the need to ask questions. I pocketed my flashlight and went over to him, and I bent down and tried to get a grip so I could help him up.
“Quit it,” he groaned. “Stop.”
Something had to be wrong. He wasn’t reacting the way he’d told me he usually did. He’d shared a couple anecdotes about how he always had to be prepared to be jumped. And right there—he’d been holding a small pocketknife, but it fell from his hand when I yanked him into a seated position.
I instinctively pushed off his beanie, and I felt his forehead.
Fuck, he was burning up.
Now I knew what I’d be forced to do on my break.
“We’re goin’ upstairs.” I sucked in a breath and tried to haul him up, and it took all my strength. “Ben, you gotta help me out.”
“No,” he coughed. He said no, but he did pull up a leg so he could stand. It was easy to see he had very little energy, though. “Don’t…don’t tell Trace I’m here.”
Oh yeah?
Fuck you.
I was so goddamn sick of worrying about him. Worrying, hating, resenting, missing… His dumbass letter had shot my brain into a million directions, and I’d spent weeks analyzing every word. I’d been a shitshow. Obsessed and pissy, obsessed and scared, obsessed and understanding. I’d hosted live debates in my head—with one part defending him and reminding me of his low self-esteem, and then another part cursing him to hell, and… The part I detested the most was the one asking why I fucking cared so much.
It took a while, but I managed to get him over to the stoop of my apartment’s entrance.
“Did the dog adopt you?” I asked, out of breath.
He coughed again and grabbed on to the railing. “He won’t…leave me alone.”