Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
“What?” I lower my hand as his face appears on the screen, complete with a what the fuck expression.
“You, shirt cocking it!” I exclaim. Complain?
“What’re you on about?”
“You’ve got no daks on,” I splutter, referring to his lack of pants. “Ergo, shirt cocking it.”
“I don’t know what you think you saw, but it wasn’t that. I’m either full cock or no cock at all. Like I’d be free balling it with this clawed fucker around.”
“What?”
“The cat,” he reiterates with a sigh. “I was talking to the cat, you idiot.”
“Does he answer back?”
“Funny fucker,” he replies, sounding anything but amused. “The little bastard just bit my pinkie toe.”
“You’re sure it was your toe and not your cock? They’re about the same size.”
“Maybe a giant’s toe.”
“Because you’re like a troll.”
“Well, these troll feet are gonna boot you and him up the arse. Good job he’s off to his forever home tomorrow. There’s a reason you’re the last of the litter,” he adds ominously, turning from the phone to speak to the cat again.
Rafferty’s wife, Alyssa, has a thing for waifs and strays. It’s probably why she likes my brother. “Anyway,” he says, signalling a change in conversation partner. “I’ve just had mum on the blower. She tells me she’s considering staging an intervention.”
The chair creaks as I kick my legs out under the table and cross one ankle over the other. “Want to tell me why?”
“Because of whatever it is you’re getting up to over there.”
“Who says I’m up to anything?” I don’t bother stifling my sigh, tipping my head back to soak up the last rays of the sun.
“Your social media accounts. The old girl says you’re not posting so you must be up to something.”
“Jesus Christ. I’m thirty, not bloody three!”
“Age is just a number. Mothering instincts are what counts. Can you see where I’m going with this?”
“She’s been bending your ear.”
“Bloody oath. She hasn’t seen your ugly mug on the internet, that it’s a red flag because you’re the kind of bloke who shouts his own name as he comes.”
“Pretty sure she didn’t say that.”
“Call it artistic licence.”
“Tell her I’m fine.” I don’t bother defending the rest because biting just gives rise to more piss-taking in the Phillips clan. “I’ve just been busy.”
“Not according to Byron.” Tee uses what I suppose you’d call a meaningful tone.
“No one’s ever as busy as By, obvious.” My retort is heavy on the sarcasm because both he and Byron can shove meaningful up their collective, or individual, arses.
“Or as important, don’t forget that.” Rafferty’s pause signals a more serious tone. “He says your accommodation is right out of the shire and reckons you won’t stay there long.”
“It is a bit out in the sticks,” I reply, purposely misunderstanding him.
“Not rural, he said Hobbit-like. I’m not sure if he meant underground or what. But he seemed pretty pleased with himself.”
“He meant small. Next time you speak to him, tell him thanks. Tell him the place is perfect.”
“I’m not your messenger,” Tee grumbles.
“And he’s not my dad.”
“And I’m sure he thanks the Good Lord every day for that.”
“I don’t know what my whereabouts has got to do with him.”
“You know he likes to keep his eye on his spare parts,” he says with a sly grin. “Someone’s got to give the man a new liver when his packs in.”
“Get fucked,” I reply without bite. These shitheads have been telling me I’d been bred for spare parts since I was four years old. It was traumatising at the time, but now I get payback by giving them shit about getting old.
“And your agent has been on the blower to him, trying to track you down. She says you’re ignoring her.”
Bloody Jacquie. “Like I say, I’ve been busy.”
“Busy havin’ a quarter life crisis?”
“No, but I’ll book one in if you promise I’ll live to one twenty.”
“Well, Byron seems to think he’s invincible, so the way I see it, the rest of us have to hang around just to piss him off.” There’s some truth in the joke, but it turns out I’m not much in the mood for it as I glance at the trees again. Life is short. Shorter for some than others. Just look at my dad, on the cusp of a retirement full of plans. He and Mum were looking forward to hooking up the caravan and touring Australia, joining the ranks of the adventurous grey nomads. They wanted to travel farther afield, too. Live in London for a while to spend some time with Flynn and his brood, visit Europe and travel from Iceland to Easter Island to Timbuk-bloody-tu. They missed out on all of that.
I wonder what he would’ve made of me as a dad at twenty-three. He’d probably have whacked me around the back of the head as he’d repeated one of his many pieces of wisdom. What did I tell you? Don’t be silly, wrap that willy. Or he might say something like, accidents happen, son. That’s how me and your mum ended up with you. For sure, he’d tell a joke or two, but underneath, I know today, he’d be gutted for me. Sad that I’d missed out on so much time with Kennedy and Wilder. Family was everything to him, and the man lived to make his family happy.