Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79137 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79137 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
I wanted the dress. The whole thing. My heart broke at the idea of cutting any of it.
My sister, Dorothy, ended up not wanting even a strip of it, not even when her wedding ended up being just two months after our mother's death. It was something I could never, and never wanted to, understand.
Don't let him bury me, she had told me, the last night as it turned out, of her life. I don't want to be in the ground.
She had gone to sleep after I promised I wouldn't let him do that and I had slipped off to go do some laundry in the basement for an hour. By the time I went back upstairs to bring her her favorite robe fresh from the drier, she had passed.
I never could figure out if maybe she had known and that was why she chose that night to tell me her wishes for her body.
Either way, I broke.
There was no other way to put it.
My sister was eight states away. My father was who the hell knew where. I was utterly alone as I called the police, sobbing so hard that the lady on the line had to get so stern with me that she was almost yelling. I had to sit there as they came in and officially pronounced her, as we waited for the coroner to come, then for the coroner to wait for me to calm down enough to tell him which funeral home he should call to have her moved to.
Then I had to be the one to pick out her casket, her urn, her outfit, to arrange her viewing, close-casket as was her wish, to order flowers, to call caterers, to call family and friends to invite them, to place the ad in the paper.
Everything.
I had to do every damn little thing.
And I sobbed every single step of the way.
It was amazing anything got done, that anyone could understand me. But, I guessed, those people were used to dealing with grieving loved ones.
My father did show up to her viewing.
With a date.
A fucking date.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Lazarus interrupted my story, shocking my attention to him, finding him pausing mid-way through plating both of our breakfasts. His dark eyes were unreadable, but there was a ticking muscle in his jaw that suggested even though he didn't know any of the people involved, he was angry for my mother regardless.
"I did say he was an ass," I said, giving him a humorless smile as he put both of the plates down and closed the few feet between us, his large hands reaching out to frame my face unexpectedly.
His head ducked slightly, pinning my eyes with his.
"I'm sorry about your mom, sweetheart. And I'm sorry you had to go through that alone."
Then, I kid you not, he lowered toward me and pressed a kiss to the center of my forehead.
Whether I was just dehydrated from the past three days or was just that blown away by the casual sweetness of it or what, but I actually freaking swayed on my feet.
And I had been silently praying he wasn't aware, a hope that was dashed all of a second later when he pulled back with an amused grin. "Guess we should get some food in your system before you faint on me," he said, releasing my face only after trailing one finger across my jaw then down the cleft in my chin.
So then he turned around to finish plating the food as I walked somewhat numbly back to the table, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.
Maybe it was just the withdrawal.
Or maybe I was getting that damn Stockholm thing after all.
Whatever it was was freaky.
"Ketchup?" he asked as he put my plate down in front of me. "Hot sauce is a bad idea," he added and I smiled.
"Ah, I think I'll keep it bland for right now," I said, reaching for the salt though.
He sat down, pouring me both a glass of water and orange juice before reaching for his fork.
"I have to go out tonight," he said when I was about two bites into my food.
"Out?" I repeated, brows drawn together.
"I have, ah, work."
"With The Henchmen?" I asked, wincing a bit in case I shouldn't have been advertising that I knew who he was affiliated with.
"No, but they'll be there too. I have a fight."
A fight?
Like... a boxer?
That would explain his hands. Sort-of.
"What kind of fight?"
"The illegal, underground kind," he supplied, giving me a somewhat devilish little smile I couldn't help but respond to.
"So you're, what, a cage fighter?"
"Only when one of the other fighters can't fight for whatever reason. This is my first one in a while."
"Are you... nervous?" I asked, not sure what would make anyone want to get into a fight on purpose. I once went at it with the boy who lived next door when I was seven and I was pretty sure I still wasn't over it. Who signed up for fat lips and bleeding gums and black eyes?