Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 150546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 753(@200wpm)___ 602(@250wpm)___ 502(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 753(@200wpm)___ 602(@250wpm)___ 502(@300wpm)
“War, baby…” Mom whispers from behind the wall of muscle.
“I’m fine, Mom.” I bare my teeth, scrubbing the tears away even though more trail close behind. “I’ll be fine.”
Dad searches my eyes, turning over his shoulder to the mothers. He shakes his head slightly, but I don’t care to think into it.
“Son, look at me.” Bishop is in my face now, with his thick but well-trimmed beard and deep-set eyes that look so much like Priest’s it’s uncanny. “You do whatever you got to do to unleash what the fuck is eating you in here—” He stabs his finger into my chest. His eyes never leave mine as his hand snakes behind my neck and holds me in place. The tears continue to fall. “—then you come the fuck back to our girl, you hear me?” He rests his forehead against mine, and fuck if I didn’t hear his breath catch. “You killed her demons. Now take care of your own. You know she’ll be there when you’re ready. We all are here, son. We’re a family. But I also know you, Warren fucking Malum. We all fucking do. Her included.”
Bishop pulls me back and my eyes bounce around the parents. All of them. They’ve always parented each of us the same way. We don’t have one mother, we have three. We don’t have one father, we have three.
Brantley’s head bows, and Saint pushes her body between Dad and Bishop, leaning up and kissing me on the cheek.
When she disappears, Madison takes her place, swiping my tears away. “I love you.”
My heart squeezes in my chest as I nod at her.
In a flurry of pink hair, Mom doesn’t waste time when her arms fling around my neck. She steps back, placing a gentle kiss on both of sides of my face and then lifts her chin slightly.
“Go. Not too far, War.” Mom pats my chest. “We will be spending some time with Halen over the next couple days.” Her eyes narrow, but then soften. “Not too far.” The shadows of the night swallow her as she leaves.
The sound of the chopper whipping violently through the air slows, as it lowers to the ground with a powerful pulse of air.
Dad tugs me in again, his mouth at my ear. “Don’t take too fucking long. If she’s anything like your mother, and we all know she’s her auntie’s girl, she’ll be busting down your door before you know it.” Then he releases me, and they’re gone.
***
The days move slowly. Passing minutes turn into hours, and then days. Throughout that time, all of the parents have come through every night to check I’m still breathing. They thought I was asleep, but I don’t think I fucking slept at all. I’d stare down at that same blade every fucking hour of every day as I drowned myself in alcohol, in hopes to numb every-fucking-thing.
The new tattoo artist came on the third day, spent six hours on my neck until the angel of death was permanently inked into my skin, with the words IACY EWBOMH beneath it. She was quiet. Probably terrified.
On the fourth day, my door swung open and in a flurry of fire and sass stood Evie Paige. She grumbled around the room, complaining about how much she hated how the last episode of some bullshit show she was watching ended, and then sat with me all day as I helped her choose the color of her new ride. We settled on satin black like the rest of us. She was practically a King; the closest you’d ever find an outsider to our group is Evie. When night came, she shoved me into the bathroom, ordered food, and made sure I slid into bed. I didn’t remember a lot of this, since I could barely walk through the waft of alcohol I’d been poisoning myself with.
On the sixth day, both Priest and Vaden came and didn’t leave. They’d been around a lot, but they knew to keep their distance. I think everyone was making sure that I hadn’t tried to really tear out the pain and accidentally kill myself in the process. Because there were times between day one and day seven where I wanted to. I wanted to cut myself open to rummage through the torment and tear it out with my bare fucking hands.
But something held me stationary. Suspended in the air by whatever was left of my decaying soul. I knew what that something was. And I wanted to move for her. Even if the said moving was my hand, around a bottle, and lifting it to my mouth. It was movement. It was time. It was numb.
That first week passed.
And then came the second.
The movements were a little different. I could feel my heart beating in my chest instead of it thrashing against my rib cage. I could stand to look myself in the mirror, if only for a second. Which is where I am now, squeezing the bathroom sink with my hands and wondering how long I can maintain this grip before it turns to dust in my hands.