Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 71911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
The oppressive weather slapped me in the face as I walked out of the elevator and through the gate leading from my garage to the apartment grounds. I hoped this shit didn’t take long. I glanced at the pool, and the image of Brielle’s bikini-covered ass popped in my head, and I jerked my gaze off the pool area and kept walking to the south part of the property.
I wasn’t going to think about her. I’d been doing good. Out of sight, out of mind. Right?
“Holy shit.”
I paused and turned toward the voice.
Standing on the sidewalk adjacent to the path I was on was a boy. He was older than Nate, but he was still young. Brown hair was long enough that he had it tucked behind his ears. My gaze went to the drumsticks in his hands. He was just carrying them around. Twirling them. Possibly playing on things other than drums when he felt the beat. I’d once done the same thing.
The boy recognized me, and oddly, he looked familiar to me.
I smiled at him. “Hello.”
His jaw dropped slightly. “No way,” he muttered, then shook his head. “No freaking way.”
“Nice sticks,” I told him, wondering what it was about the kid that was so familiar.
It was clear we had never met. His reaction had made that apparent.
He glanced at the drumsticks in his hand, then back at me. The awestruck look on his face made the bad shit in this life worth it. To this kid and others like him, I was important. I stood for something.
“You play?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. I, uh, just got back from camp a few days ago. Music camp,” he said, and then he squinted his eyes and studied me hard. “Are you really him?”
Unable to keep my smile from spreading, I shrugged. “If you mean, am I Dean Finlay? Then, yes, I’m really him.”
“You’re here. At my apartment building. Here. You.” He shook his head again and continued to stare. “Mom said you didn’t come to the office. I thought maybe you had changed your mind.”
What? Did I know his mom? Maybe that was it. But what office?
“Your autograph. She was supposed to get it for me. On my old drumsticks actually. I left them for her to get you to sign them. They were my first drumsticks. The ones I’d learned on. I’d saved up enough money from mowing grass and running errands last year to help her pay for camp and buy these better sticks.”
I, too, had once mowed lawns to pay for my drumsticks. The kid wanted to play. He wanted to be the best. He wanted it bad enough to make it happen. It wasn’t a passing thing for him. He was invested in it. I didn’t see that much anymore.
“You live here then?” I asked him, waving a hand back at the apartment building. Perhaps I’d seen him from a distance once and forgotten about it.
He nodded. “Yeah. If you could wait a second, I could run and go get a Sharpie. Maybe you could sign these sticks?” he asked me with so much fucking hopefulness in his voice that it made my chest tighten.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ve got to go see this man for a few minutes to handle a situation. You can walk with me, and there’s a good chance he’ll have a Sharpie in his truck. That way, you can tell me about this camp you went to. They didn’t have music camps when I was a kid. You could show me what you learned. We could play a set together.”
The way his eyes lit up with complete joy made me want to go sit down and play a few sets with the kid right now. Give him some pointers. Show him how to develop it. I hoped to God he had talent. For his sake.
“Sure!” he replied.
“This way,” I told him, and he fell into step beside me.
“How long you been playing?” I asked him.
“Three years ago, the music teacher at school let us pick an instrument we wanted to learn. I chose the drums. I thought they were cool. Mom said I’d been drumming on things since I was little. I learned basics that year, but I wanted my own drums. Mom saved and worked some extra jobs to get me a set. She thinks I believe they were from Santa, but I don’t have the heart to tell her that I haven’t believed in Santa for years. I know she worked hard to buy it for me. It was used, but it was the one I had picked out. We can’t afford lessons, but my music teacher helps me at school during the year. He’s not as good as you though.”
Where was the kid’s dad? Why was his mom paying for everything? Fucking deadbeat parents. I hated that shit. I’d had my own set of fucked up parents. Rush’s mom had her issues too. When you chose to bring life into this world, you should put your kid first.