Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Her mouth barely has time to twitch in response before I’m grabbing her hand to guarantee we don’t get separated during our pursuit.
Because we’re gonna fucking see where this shit goes.
Like my favorite film franchise, we’re in this shit until those final credits roll.
More teeth are found closer to the wooded area but eventually are replaced by bones.
These are smaller than most of the ones by the road.
Perhaps they’re from an ear?
Or feet?
Zig zagging around the dead branches and body parts continuously creates a pattern of crunches and snaps that sound like a slow clap no one should ever want, one that seems to increase in consistency as the pieces we discover grow in size.
Neck?
Upper arms?
They remain steady in placement.
I think that’s her shoulder something?
Sternum maybe?
Pelvis?
Is that her fucking pelvis?!
Similar to some sort of Wizard of Ick, morbid brick road, they lead us to a tree located closer to the less known cliffs than the cop we left behind.
“Is that…” Bunny breathlessly begins, both hands flying to cup her mouth. “Is that her?”
Despite my shaky frame, I lower myself to a kneeling position directly across from the skull, I know belongs to my mother.
The woman who raised me.
Who taught me the best values I hope to someday to teach the son I know we’re having.
It’s impossible to stop my jaw from quivering, so I don’t.
I allow it to tremble and throb and tick while reaching out to lightly caress the crack from the accident that took her away long before this psychopath. “I’m gonna get this asshole, Mom. I promise.”
“Fuckme,” Nolan’s voice abruptly darts into the conversation, indicating his late arrival. “Do all those body parts belong to who I think they do?”
“Yeah,” Bunny meekly answers on my behalf.
“Fuck,” he grumbles again in obvious remorse. “Sorry, I wasn’t here sooner. I ran out of goddamn gas.”
“How?” My face twists just enough over my shoulder to meet his stare. “How is that fucking possible?”
“I think the fuel gage is busted.” A small pat to Bunny’s ass is delivered in passing. “I had a full tank, then the next time I turned it on it was almost empty, and then the next time it was full again, and then I’m on my way here, and somehow ran out.”
Confusion darts my eyebrows down. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Tell me about it.” His frame lowers to match my stance. “But we can talk about that later.” One hand lands lovingly in the middle of my back. “Right now, we need to talk about that.”
“She’s not a that, Nolan.” I viciously bite, stare narrowing. “She’s still my fucking mom.”
“Not her, Kid,” he grunts in irritation prior to kicking his chin upward to a small recording device wedged on a tree branch angled downward at us. “That.”
Chapter 22
Bunny
I’m pretty sure this is a Halloween costume.
Turning to the left, I admire where the white, faux fur cuts off right below my ass while nodding.
Yup.
This shit is definitely a Halloween costume.
Why did I let Posie convince me to buy this?!
Why am I wearing it?!
Who wears something like this to a Christmas festival?!
Better yet.
Who wears something like this to a Christmas festival when they’re pregnant?!
I turn the opposite direction and study my reflection a second time.
Okay.
Fine.
Maybe I’m wearing it because I’m pregnant?
Because I want the men in my life to see me as this sexy little thing, they can’t keep their hands off of versus the fragile female that’s only important because she’s housing their unborn child?
I shift myself forward and untuck the strands that managed to get caught underneath the red hood of the sexy, Mrs. Santa outfit I’ve put on, fuzzy trimmed boots and all.
Honestly?
I look phenomenal and this chunky black belt hides where my stomach is starting to pooch quite well.
Is part of me convinced that I’m too old to be dressing like this?
Yes.
One thousand percent yes.
But who really gets to decide that?
If I’m happy and comfortable in my own skin, in what I’ve got going on with me, isn’t that all that should matter?
Kind of like being in a relationship with two men instead of one?
I don’t let what other people may whisper about us get in my head.
Why should me strutting around in something that looks like I want you to ride me instead of a sleigh be any different?
Grabbing my small clutch and exiting our work in progress apartment is a complicated feat.
Between renovations, reorganizing, and Christmas preparations along with decorating, the entire space is one giant Home Alone tribute trap.
How we manage to have coffee or a meal in the kitchen is basically a baby in a manager miracle.
So, like in one column?
Very excited about the changes.
We’re building our home.
We’re building our family.
We’re building our lives.
Yet in the other?
I’m tired of stuff stuck to other stuff it shouldn’t be stuck to.
I miss being able to work comfortably in the living room while binging old sitcoms.