Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“His friend pissed in the bed.” Bellamy scrubbed a hand over his face. “That’s why he called me crying like someone had tried to murder him. Cockblock...”
“What’s a cock block, Bubba?”
Bellamy face-palmed on a hard sigh. “It’s a…Jesus Christ...”
“It’s a kid who wets the bed?” I offered.
“Why?”
I frowned and looked at Bellamy, who was no help. He just smiled and waved a hand through the air like I was supposed to magically come up with an explanation. “Well...why is your name Arlo? It just is.” I turned onto the highway, driving past the swarm of cop cars at the 7-11.
“My name’s Arlo because my mom liked it.
“And I like cockblock.” I frowned. I’d literally just told a kid I liked cock block.
“Peehead sounds better than cock block,” Arlo mumbled. “Cock block sounds like something you’d call a rooster.” He huffed again. “I like peehead.”
The kid was exhausting. “Okay, let’s change it then. Peehead it is.”
We drove through another of Dayton’s rundown neighborhoods. I rapidly flipped through radio stations, trying to find something at one am on a Friday night that didn’t have lyrics involving hoes and bitches.
“I need to know one thing, Gas Station Lady.” Arlo blurted. “Are you gonna poop on my brother?”
Bellamy snorted, covering his mouth as he looked out the window.
I glanced in the rearview at the kid now scowling toward the front of the car. “Uh, no.”
“You promise?”
“Yeah. It’s not my thing.”
“Bubba, you said she was gonna poop on you!”
“Arlo...Just leave it alone.”
After a couple of minutes of awkward silence, I pulled up to Bellamy’s house. An old pickup that wasn’t there when we left was parked on the drive, and it was almost impossible to ignore the heavy breath Bellamy dragged in. “Go wait on the porch, okay?” he said, glancing over the headrest at Arlo. “Scooter’s out there.”
The kid unbuckled himself and hopped out of the car, darting through the dark yard to the side of the house.
“So,” I said, lifting a brow at Bellamy. “I’m going to poop on you?”
His chin tucked to his chest on a short laugh. “The kid has to hang around Hendrix… Don’t judge him.”
“Enough said.” I was still scarred from the turd picture he’d sent me.
He stared at me, his gaze dropping to my lips, and I thought, for a minute, he was going to kiss me again, but the front porch light cut on and his hand shot to the door. “Later, baby girl.”
And he was out, jogging across the yard toward the house.
At that moment, Bellamy didn’t seem like the bad boy. He was a guy who was willing to walk twenty minutes through the slums of Dayton to get his little brother. Just because his friend had wet the bed.
26
Bellamy
Wolf bounced a quarter across the table, ringing the cup then telling Hendrix to drink while I shot off a text: You’re sure Arlo can stay again?
Miss Wright: For the third time. Yes. He’s begged all day. They’re having a good time.
Me: Thank you. I’ll be there to pick him up at ten.
“Who you over there texting, Bell?” Hendrix moved behind me, craning his neck to try to catch a glimpse of my screen. “Drewbers?”
“Fuck off, shithead.” I closed out of my messages and slipped the device back into my pocket, then bounced a quarter into the cup and told Hendrix to drink.
“Happy Birthday in prison, Zepp.” Wolf tipped back his beer.
Hendrix grabbed a Miller Lite from the cooler, cracking it open and pouring it into the sink while humming the birthday song.
This was shit. I bounced the quarter and rang the cup. “Drink, Hendrix.”
He chugged his beer, then sank into the chair across from me. “Zepp said they didn’t give him a cake. Such bullshit.”
“It’s a prison, dude,” Wolf said.
Hendrix pushed his sleeves up and leaned back in the chair. “I told Zepp when I saw him today that we beat Harford’s ass again. He said that was the best birthday present ever.” Hendrix cackled, then fell silent, twisting the tab on his beer back and forth until it pulled loose.
We sat in silence for a minute, drinking and thinking. The doorbell rang, and Hendrix shot up to answer it. Girls giggled, and seconds later, Hendrix had them in the kitchen, plying them with cheap vodka. Music cut on in the living room as more people filtered in. And this was what we all needed, a distraction from the shitty reality of Dayton.
“Hey, Bell!” Hendrix shouted, holding a tequila bottle in one hand and whiskey in the other, pouring them both into a Mega Gulp cup. “Mary thinks you’re hot.” He waggled his eyebrows in the direction of one of the girls he’d escorted in.
“Congratufuckinglations, Mary,” I said, barely glancing at her.
Wolf laughed, and Hendrix scowled before putting the liquor down and rushing to Mary’s side to wrap his arm around her. “It’s all right, Mary. I think you’re hot.” He shot another glare at me.