Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” he says, his voice full of sorrow. “I know what that feels like.”
I pull my eyes from looking at my own hands and look back at him. For the first time, I notice dog tags hanging around his neck. Small pieces of metal, unassuming for the most part, but I know they tell a story. Every soldier who wears them has one. It seems in a time of war, those stories get harder to tell.
Kid is young. I know he’s older than me. Even with an unmarred face and bright young eyes, he’s got an air about him that lets you know he’s seen more than most. He’s suffered more than most.
I immediately feel some sort of kindred-ship with him. I begin to shut the little part of myself down that he somehow forced me to open. He’s so young; there’s a good chance he’s still a soldier, and there’s no guarantee that any of them are safe. It’s best to just keep every one of them at a distance.
“You’re in the Army?” I finally manage to ask, angling my head at the tags around his neck.
I watch as he reaches his hand up and touches them as if he’s worn them so long he’s forgotten that they’re even there.
“I was in the Marines,” he answers quickly. “I’ve been out for a couple years now.”
“How old are you?” Was a soldier? No longer in the service? He doesn’t look old enough.
“Twenty-four.”
Six years older than me. I shake my head, knowing he sees nothing but a child sitting here in this bed. Not that I expect anything different, but I’m tired of being viewed as a child.
“And now what?” I ask pointing at his leather cut. “You’re in a one-percenter motorcycle gang?”
He smiles ear to ear at my question. He’s amused, but he doesn’t make me feel like an idiot for asking.
“You could say that, but we’re probably on the opposite end of the spectrum than what you’re thinking.”
So not criminals. I remember seeing them at the memorial. Bikers were manning most of the tables, serving the food, and if memory serves correctly, they all did it with a smile on their face. Maybe they weren’t there doing required community service for the probation department like I’d assumed to begin with.
“That didn’t go too well,” Kid says.
I frown at him, having no clue what he’s talking about. I was just mentally kicking myself in the ass for judging the bikers when I’ve been on the receiving end of that type of judgment more times than I’d care to count. Hypocrite.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“With your parents. It didn’t seem to go very well with them.”
“Were you eavesdropping?” I have no idea why I’m getting so angry, but defensiveness has been my go to reaction to most things the last five years of my life.
“Your dad seemed mad,” he says sitting back in the chair, putting slightly more distance between us. “If he was going to come in here and be a total dick, I wanted to be close. You don’t need that shit right now.”
I find myself leaning toward him, trying to close the distance I’ve managed to force him to create.
“He’s not my dad. They’re not my parents. I’m a foster.” I watch his face and wait for the sympathy and questions each and every person I’ve told that bit of information to have had in the past.
It doesn’t come. He looks at me just as he had before. Smiling, almost teasingly so.
“You’d be pretty upset too if someone was jeopardizing your paycheck.”
He quirks an eyebrow up at me.
“Foster parents get a check every month,” I explain. “Compensation for taking on wards of the state. Each kid they house brings in money each month.
He nods his head in understanding.
“Tough life,” he says. It’s filled with empathy and compassion and for some reason it rubs me completely wrong, but I let it go.
“You have no idea,” I mutter.
“And your real parents?”
Yeah, no chance in hell I’m opening that damn door. Unable to speak of my parents, I do what I always do and get defensive.
“What is this family fucking share time? Am I in some sort of big brother/ big biker program now?”
He shakes his head as if I’m amusing him.
“Hardly,” he says with a smirk.
I’m pretty good at reading people. It comes from watching rather than interacting with most people over the years. The look on his face says nothing of wanting to counsel me. The gleam in his eye doesn’t hint at wanting to be any type of role model. It’s carnal, almost aggressive. All hidden behind a perfect smile and calm demeanor. It’s thrilling and utterly confusing all in one. He has to be mental. What kind of sexy biker wants a broken girl who’s been nothing but a bitch since she woke up from a failed suicide attempt?