Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 119454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 597(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 597(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
Just do it…
He dialed the number he had for Legend, not even certain if it was the right one anymore. It rang and rang, then went to a generic automated voicemail.
“I hope this is you. Motherfucker, it’s Axel… Look, Legend, if this is your number, and you get this voicemail, call me back when you get a chance. It’s been a long time, man.” He pinched the skin between his eyes when a budding headache made itself known. “We need to talk.”
After that, he called Caspian and got another voicemail: “Hello, you’ve reached Caspian St. James. Please leave a message, and I’ll return your call at my earliest convenience.”
“Caspian, it’s Axel Hendrix. You seemed to have dropped off the face of the Earth.” He chortled, biting his tongue, wanting to say something else, to tell him what a snooty piece of shit he was. He’d have liked to say how Caspian seemed to think he was better than everyone else now—he’d forgotten where he came from. He could remind him that he ate mud pies as a kid, just like the rest of ’em, and wore the same dirty ass clothes for days on end.
Now he’s some big-time journalist I hear… Too good to talk to anyone from back here in ol’ Portland, Kentucky. The ’Ville. Stuck-up fucker. “I’m sure you’re livin’ it up in Atlanta, huh? Doin’ your thing down there in Georgia. That’s good… Just, uh, call me back, man. It’s kind of important. Thanks.”
He quickly ended the call, and poured himself yet another drink, but this time, something strong: Woodford Reserve Kentucky bourbon. He checked some emails, mostly business related, trying to clear his mind of the disturbing dream that still filled him with unease. An hour or two passed, and he couldn’t clear his mind after all.
Why in the hell did I call them? This is senseless. That dream has completely messed my head up… has me calling my friends that I haven’t spoken to in forever, like they’re even going to believe that shit. They’ll probably try and have me committed to some mental hospital if I tell ’em the truth. I’ll have to figure this out.
He started to pace and run his fingers through his hair, moving it out of his eyes once again. Tonight, it seemed to have a mind of its own. This is crazy, and I’m crazy for thinking it was real. I’m going to the bar. I gotta get out of this house…
He ran to his master suite bathroom, then paused. There, on the floor, was a small white feather. Bending down, he retrieved it, turning it back and forth between his forefinger and thumb. He placed it on his nightstand, now more determined to make this whole damn thing go away, and took a hot shower. After splashing on some cologne, he combed his hair back, threw on a pair of blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a long-sleeved black shirt. Then, he slipped on his black leather jacket, grabbed his car keys, and headed to his white Chevrolet Silverado in the garage.
Time to listen to some ear-bleeding music and get wasted. Now that would be a dream come true.
Cavaliers Inn, on Main Street, was bopping with country tunes, B-side 80s punk rock, and classic rock music, filled from wall to wall with inebriated, dart-throwing and greasy-food-scarfing people. English sat at the bar, still in her work attire—a burgundy pant suit with an ivory, satin blouse beneath the blazer that stretched to its limit across her heaving breasts, confined in a new push-up bra.
She blinked a few times from the thick smoke in the place and cursed out people in her mind that walked about acting like fools. Meanwhile, she nursed a glass of merlot as she spilled her problems onto her friend, Melanie, one of the bartenders at the establishment.
She glanced up at the television and noticed a car commercial coming on, interrupting some basketball game she was barely paying attention to.
“…And then I told him he could stay the night.” She didn’t dare make eye contact with the lady, for she knew what was to come. The hammer of judgment.
“Eeeeeenglish!” Melanie shook her head, as if to say, ‘Shame! Shame!’
“I know, I know!” English dropped her eyes and peered into her glass, both hands wrapped around the stem as if that somehow gave her a bit more strength to speak her disgraceful truth. She could see her reflection in the dark red concoction. All watery and warped. She smiled at herself, yet she battled with a surge of sadness, too. “He just had such a hold on me for so long, Melanie. I mean, yeah, I initiated the breakup, and I don’t regret it, but I missed… you know, being a couple. Like when things were good between Willis and me.”