Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 91937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Liar.” His face advances into hers, and she winces back. “I want to see him.”
“It’s the middle of the fucking night, Winston,” she seethes, trying to keep her voice down. “You’ll have to wait until next Sunday.”
“Don’t make me get angry,” he warns. I get within distance where he would be able to hear me without me shouting at the top of my lungs.
“I’m getting fucking angry,” I snap, and both sets of eyes come to me as I enter the conversation, knowing I shouldn’t.
“Who the fuck are you?” Winston looks over his shoulder at me. “We are having a private conversation.”
“Does a private conversation have you showing up here in the middle of the night and waking up the dead?” I ask, and he turns to face me. “You want to have a private conversation, do it privately and not shouting, making sure everyone can hear your business.”
“Big fucking deal,” Winston hisses at me. “What’s it to you?”
“Me?” I point at myself. “I don’t give a shit. But them”—I point over to the houses that are around us—“they might not be so happy to be woken up in the middle of the night because a grown-ass man is having a tantrum.” I shrug. “We can always find out.” I put my hands on my hips. “Who knows, maybe one of them will call the sheriff in, and he can see that you are not only blitzed but you drove here.”
“Why don’t you go back to wherever it is you came from and mind your fucking business.” He shakes his head. “Chump.”
I laugh. “That’s the best you got? Should have perhaps paid more attention in school and grown your vocabulary. Instead of riding the coattails of your sorry excuse for a father.” He takes a step forward. I know I’m poking the bear, but I’ve had a long fucking day. I’m tired as fuck, and the last thing I want is this drama unfolding in my front yard. “Why don’t you go back to Daddy so he can pet your head and tell you what a good boy you are?”
He takes a step down, and now Harmony has stepped out of her house. “Winston,” she warns him, “don’t you do—”
“Shut up, bitch, this is all your fault.”
“Of course it is.” I shake my head. “Never a Cartwright’s fault. Always someone else’s.”
He walks down the remainder of the steps, and I wait for it, wait for him to take that first swing so I can defend myself, but instead, he stops in front of me, toe to toe. “If it wasn’t for your sister…”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, because your brother being drunk behind a wheel and killing four people was my sister’s doing. You’re pathetic.” I stare at him. “Now, are you going to get the fuck out of here, or am I going to have to call the sheriff myself?” He takes a second, and I only give him one before I pull the phone from my back pocket.
“Fuck this,” he spits, walking back to his car. “She’s not fucking worth it.” He opens the door. “You’re probably fucking him too.” He motions from Harmony to me with his chin, and I look down at my boots to hide the laughter. I’ve said maybe six words to her in the ten years she’s been living in this town. Most of them were “excuse me” or “thank you.” He gets into the car and peels out of the driveway.
I take a deep breath, and I’m about to leave when she says softly, “Thank you.” Her voice cracks. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”
I nod. “Yeah, whatever.” I turn and walk back to my house and away from the house that looks like it’s falling apart. I hear the door close softly; the click of the lock fills the quiet night. I take a second to look back over my shoulder at the house, wondering why in the hell anyone would fucking rent it. The house is literally falling apart and has been for years. The old owner passed away ten years ago, leaving it to his son, who lives out of state and basically forgets this house exists. He’s hired one of the local real estate agents to be a property manager and get it rented out. In the past two years, three people have lived there, lasting only a few months. I’m waiting for him to visit to see if I can buy it from him so I can fix it and sell it. I planned to do that with my own, but now that it’s done, I’m too in love with it to sell it.
I should go inside and shower, but instead, I sit on the top step in the dark for thirty minutes, making sure he’s gone and not coming back. “Asshole,” I mumble to myself before I get up and walk inside my house. A soft glow comes from the stove light, and I just bypass it as I walk up the steps to my bedroom. Pulling off my shirt, I toss it in the overloaded hamper. It lands on the top and slowly falls to the pile that surrounds the basket. “Fuck, I have to do laundry,” I grumble as I kick my boots off and add my jeans and boxers to the pile before going to the shower.