Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
I float my gaze from one wrist to another as if I’ll recognize the feel of the skin or the wear on the leather by sight. Which wrist did he wear his on last night?
“Did you find the gator?” Army suddenly asks.
I look up, noticing Macon entering the kitchen. The oldest and the head of the house.
He pulls off his greasy, sweaty T-shirt and tosses it into the laundry room. I watch him fill a glass with water, his broad back tanned and toned, and it does that thing where his muscles bulge on each side of his spine, making it look indented. His jeans hang low as he watches the water fill the glass like none of us are here.
There’s a three-inch vertical gash on the right side of his back—an old wound—and another small one on his upper arm. And those are just the ones I can see. Macon doesn’t have tattoos. He has scars. Maybe from when he was a Marine. Maybe from here in the Bay. He’s thirty-one, and the only one, other than Liv, with brown eyes. They got them from their mother.
I catch Dallas watching me, and he just shakes his head.
Macon sits at the head of the table, Army placing a plate in front of him.
“You should’ve let me come with you,” Army tells him. “You wouldn’t have been able to handle it on your own anyway.”
Macon says nothing, just starts eating.
Dallas opens his mouth, but Macon cuts him off before he has a chance to speak. “Shut up and eat.”
I cast Dallas a look, trying to hide my amusement, because I know he was going to bitch that I was at the table.
But when I look away, I catch sight of Macon’s wrist.
And his bracelet.
My smile falls, and I raise my eyes, watching him ignore us as he chews.
It couldn’t have been him. It wouldn’t have been him.
My stomach swims. It’s on his right wrist. Same as Trace. Same as the guy last night on the couch.
I float my eyes around the table. They all wear theirs on the right wrist.
“I called Collins and Barrow,” Iron tells his brother. “Asked if we could wait till midday for the grass to dry a little.”
Macon nods, the rain last night throwing off their schedule, but I’m sure they’re used to it. Florida has weather. “Swing by Trade Winds a day early, then,” he says, “and do the maintenance in the solarium.”
Iron shifts in his seat.
“And wear a shirt this time,” Macon gripes. “I don’t ever want another phone call from those fuckin’ people.”
I bite back my smile; all the places they’re talking about are in St. Carmen. The Jaegers will let us pay them for landscaping, gardening, pool cleaning, and carpentry, but other than that, they don’t want to be reminded that we exist.
“Mariette phoned,” Army tells him, finally taking his seat. “Her latest hire already quit, and no one wants the day shift.”
Macon scoops up more food onto his fork. “Call Aracely.”
“No answer.”
“Just deal with it,” Macon mumbles.
Bags hang under his eyes, and his arm looks like it weighs a hundred pounds when he picks up his coffee cup. He pushes his plate away, barely eaten, and rises, leaving the room. Back into the garage.
Don’t worry, Dallas. Pretty sure Macon didn’t even notice I was at the table this morning anyway.
I stand up, setting my plate down next to Trace, because I know he’ll eat it. “I’ll wait outside,” I tell Iron. “Take your time.”
Sanoa Bay never seems to sleep. Kids run around where their older siblings and parents played last night, and I can never tell if people are just getting in or just going out for work. There’s always music drifting from someone’s garage or someone’s house. Always from Mariette’s Restaurant, and always from the bar next door to it after 4:00 p.m.
It’s a community in the way my neighborhood isn’t. The only thing I hate over here are the dirt roads. They’re a reminder that the Bay is just the poor part of St. Carmen and not its own town. If it were, it would have autonomy over its own revenue and be able to afford the bare minimum. Like streetlamps and sidewalks.
Iron leans under the hood of my car next to me, and I hear him talk, but I don’t know what he’s saying.
He’s been kind this morning. Really helpful like he never has before.
But my grandfather is sending him to prison for three and a half years, so maybe he thought seducing me last night would be a great way to get back at my family? And now he feels guilty about it? Was it him, then?
Army was attentive at breakfast, too. He’s usually rushing around, overwhelmed, because he’s running a business and trying to shield Macon from whatever will set him off, and I’m eighteen, so what do I matter to a twenty-eight-year-old single father? But he was calm this morning. He smiled at me. Why?