Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“Fuck you, Bridger,” I blurt out.
Juni stops chomping and turns to me. “Fuck who?”
“Get that dress on. You n’ I are gettin’ messed up tonight.” I’m out of my chair. She ditches the bag of Doritos next to it without a thought. We’re back in the apartment, the music is cranked even louder, and the pair of us get ready to break a dance floor in half somewhere way out of town at a club that’s never ready for us.
Morning sunlight scorches my face off like I’m a vampire.
Every damned sound is a gong in my ears.
Even just the racket of my own knuckles knocking on a door.
“Hello, I’m Anthony Myers with Happy Home Pest Control,” I say, fighting my grogginess every time someone answers, even if they know me. And if they don’t shut the door right away at that, I go on: “Can I share with you five reasons you need us to help keep your home pest-free?”
That’s as far as I ever make it. No one even cares to hear the first reason, let alone all five. “No, thanks.” “We’re just fine, no bugs here, goodbye.” “Give your father my best.” “Nice try, son, but between my cat n’ dog, pests are well in control here.”
It’s not even two in the afternoon when I slump against a tree just for the shade, pop open my bottle of water, and chug it—only to remember I ran out two blocks ago and all I’m chugging is air.
This day sucks so much.
It’s when I come around the corner onto the next street that my clumsy foot catches a crack in the pavement and I go flying to the ground, spilling my flyers. The arm that breaks my fall earns a red, jagged wound I know is gonna sting and pester me for the rest of the damned day. When I get up, I discover my knee took part of the fall, too, all red and ugly and scraped up. I grumble to myself as I collect the flyers off the ground, half of them now covered in granules of dirt and grass and whatever else they picked up. The flyers are so boring, designed and printed in an office of one of my dad’s friends, the dirt probably improves them.
I’m gripping the messy stack of flyers and wincing through the stinging pain as I approach the front porch of the next house.
Then stop dead when I realize what house it is.
Trey and Cody probably have their pest needs taken care of. I don’t need to step foot onto that porch. My dad won’t ask. I’ll lie if he does and say they didn’t seem interested. He’ll never know.
I turn and start walking away.
Then I stop.
No. My dad will know. He and my mom talk to Trey and Reverend Arnold every Sunday. He’ll ask Trey about my visit, and Trey likely won’t have it in him to lie on my behalf, and then it’ll come out that I either skipped or miraculously missed one of my dad’s most valuable potential clients.
But y’know what? I don’t care. That’s how much I don’t need to knock on that door. I continue walking away, my decision made with no chance of unmaking it. “If you wanted him as a client so badly,” I mumble to myself, “then you’d have come out and done this door-to-door nonsense yourself.”
I stop again.
I can already hear my mom’s voice. Anthony, your hardworking father just wants you more involved in his business. He may hand it down to you someday. Wouldn’t it break his heart if you don’t give it your all?
It’s so unfair. How my parents, despite all their failures in life and with me, get a do-over just because they had chats with Trey in an office someplace and found God or whatever.
Not everyone gets second chances.
This day sucks big fuckin’ sweaty balls.
I’m on the front porch the next minute, knuckles raised to the door. Please, Trey, answer. Trey, please answer. Answer, Trey, please, I’m beggin’ you, either answer, or let no one answer this door at all.
Then I knock.
Not two and a half seconds later, without even enough time to draw a damned breath, the door swings open.
And there stands Bridger in a tight white t-shirt stretching over his pecs and a pair of beige cargo pants.
He crosses his arms, as self-assured as a Greek god, and leans against the doorframe. “Can I help you, sir?” he asks.
Sir.
As belittling as it’s likely meant.
I avert my eyes, staring at a spot on the wall. “You answered the door awful fast. Were you watching me like a freak from the front window or somethin’?”
“You intercepted my line of sight when I was in a chair by the side window with a book.” He nods at me. “Come on in. I’ll find the first aid and get you bandaged up. You took that fall pretty hard.”