Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“Of course.”
She takes the chair beside me, the warm glow of the house lights bathing her in soft shadows.
“Did that hurt?” She points to my eyebrow. “The double piercing?”
“Like hell. But only for a few seconds. Then it was over.” I can think of a million things that hurt worse than two barbells in the eyebrow.
“What about those?” She traces her fingertips down my sleeve of tattoos. It’s been a work-in-process for the last year and a half, and I’m almost entirely filled now on that arm—much to my father’s dismay. It’s why he makes me wear long-sleeved shirts to my “internship,” even when it’s a hundred degrees out.
“Tolerable,” I say. I don’t tell her I’m one of those rare freaks who enjoys the pain. The relentless microscopic pokes. The sting. The burn. “The pain makes me feel alive, reminds me that I’m stronger than it. What about you? Anything hiding under those cute little sundresses?”
I’d eat my fucking fist if she said she had nipple piercings.
She laughs, shrugging. “Nothing. I’m pretty boring. Just singles on my ears.”
“Maybe we should do something about that.” I take a drink.
“I’ll pass. I’m going to nursing school this fall and they’re pretty strict about things like that. Fresh piercings and whatnot. They don’t even want us to wear nail polish. It’s a hygienic thing. And school policy.”
“Where are you going for school?”
“Briardale Community College,” she says. “A couple hours from here.”
“I know where that is. I go to Bexler … about an hour south of there. Old man’s making me study business. He’s convinced I’ll never amount to anything without a practical degree.”
Little does he know, a significant portion of the monthly allowance he deposits into my account goes straight to the overachieving brainiacs who take most of my classes for me online. I can get a ten-page research paper for three hundred bucks with a forty-eight hour notice. It’s amazing, really. And I don’t feel bad for any of it. The idiots with the fancy degrees designed a flawed system. I’m doing what anyone with two brain cells and a fat bank account would do if they were forced to go some overpriced college in the middle of fucking nowhere.
“That’s that old school mentality,” Sheridan says. “They think a college degree is everything, but anyone can be successful without one. A lot of people sell our generation short, but we’re still young. We still have time to prove them wrong.”
“Says the girl taking the tried-and-true track to a career in nursing,” I say.
“What’s wrong with nursing?”
“Nothing. Nurses are fucking angels. I just mean, you’re not exactly stepping outside the box here, so I find your advice … interesting.”
“You’re right. But I want to save lives and make people feel better, and that’s the way to do it. It doesn’t disqualify me from having an opinion about our generation’s career options.”
I study her in the moonlight. She watches me in return, soaking me in as if she’s studying every angle on my face.
“So what are you going to do when you’re done with school?” she asks.
It’s not a question I’m ever asked. At least not personally.
If you ask my father, he’d say I’m going to cut my hair, yank out my piercings, and come work for him. That’s the expectation anyway. To be one of his loyal Monreaux soldiers. The Vice President to Gannon’s President one of these days.
Years ago, Uncle Rod was Dad’s right hand man. Then shit got ugly between them and Dad decided to replace him with Gannon, who was fresh out of college. Moldable and pliable and desperate for our father’s approval. Still had that new-graduate smell.
Uncle Rod still isn’t over the betrayal. Can’t say that I blame him. Knowing how my father operates, I’m sure Rod’s been fucked seven ways from Sunday more times than he can count.
I’d rather stab myself in the balls with a rusty butter knife than work a single day under Gannon.
“Still trying to figure that out,” I tell her.
“I assumed your dad would have a job waiting for you the day you graduate.”
I exhale. Take a swig of beer. “He does.”
“But you don’t want it?”
Before I have a chance to answer, her phone chimes.
“I’m sorry—it’s my mom. Two seconds.” Focused on her screen, she taps out a handful of quick messages before sinking back in her seat. “Okay, she’s situated now. She forgot if she’d already taken her four o’clock meds.”
“Must be hard for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Having to be the parent.” I point to her phone. “Always being on alert. It must get exhausting. Adriana told me about your mom being hospitalized last weekend. I didn’t realize she was sick.”
She chews the inside of her lip, attention holding on her blackened phone screen.
“I’m serious about the hired help,” I add.
Truly, I don’t give to charities. My father said most of the time, ninety-two cents of every dollar you give goes straight into the untaxed pockets of those who run those operations. It’s rare to find a legit organization.