Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
“Here we are. Should I come with you? I’m always perfectly willing,” Louis offers.
“I won’t drag you out into the rain, Louis. It’s just a short walk. Save your fussing for somebody that deserves it. I always come back, don’t I?”
His eyes linger on me, dark with worry.
“Are you sure, boss? Forgive me, but this isn’t the safest place. The papers said there were four robberies and two armed assaults here last week,” he says. “You’re a public personality, Mr. Burns. If any bad actors recognized you and took the notion to—well, I might be too late to help if I’m warming my butt in the car.”
I chuckle. “Louis, I was a Marine. Plus, far more of those people out there are veterans than you’d think. If trouble goes down, I’m sure I’ll have backup.”
Frowning, he nods.
“Of course, sir. Sorry to complain. Even after all these years, I sometimes forget you’re a little more bold on the streets than Tillie.”
“Don’t be sorry. Ma needed to feel safe and you always did the job. I appreciate your concern. Give me twenty minutes before you send in the cavalry to find me.” I clap him on the shoulder.
Clutching Wyatt’s cinnamon rolls, I get out of the car, walking briskly under whatever cover I can find because I didn’t bother with an umbrella.
I’m a real Seattleite to the core. Having spent most of my life in this town, the rain feels like my own pulse. Contrary to popular belief, nobody who calls this place home gives a damn about getting wet.
The cool water mists my brows, my hands, the back of my neck like the pure night reaching down inside me, scrubbing away the day’s filth—especially my two infuriating brushes with Nevermore.
Out here, it’s about what you expect with life on the streets.
Sadly, the Emerald City has a lot of bustling streets and parks and back alleys where this hard life is the only life anyone knows.
I pass a trio of men in worn jeans passing a bottle of cheap whiskey back and forth. Lonely women puffing cigarettes and cigarillos for an extra touch of warmth on a wet night. A once-red tent, now faded pink from the sun, small flower pots strewn around it.
Several tents later, I find him sitting beside a fire in front of his meager home, an old fisherman’s cap yanked down over his eyes.
His cheeks are sunken. There are black rings around his eyes.
Goddamn, my best friend looks like shit, and it’s got nothing to do with the fact that he’s homeless. He’s been hollowed out, drained, the kind of tired sleep can’t fix.
He’s never been this beat down by the treachery that brought him here, and it makes my gut wrench.
I sit down beside him.
“Sorry I couldn’t bring you a roll the other day. Like I told you, a greedy crow snatched it out from under me at the last second,” I say, pushing the bag toward him.
“It’s whatever.” He shrugs with his whole body, like it takes that much will just to roll his shoulders. “You bring me one tonight?”
“Half a dozen to make up for the shortage. I hope you’re hungry,” I say, offering him a thin smile.
Wyatt doesn’t smile back. He reaches inside the bag, grabs a roll, and bites it in half the second it’s in front of his face.
He’s still the most human when he’s stuffing his face with sugary carbs, his cheeks ballooning like a cartoonish chipmunk behind his grizzled beard.
He winks at me as he chews, and after a long while, he swallows and says, “Thanks, man.”
My stomach drops.
It’s amazing how a simple pastry brings him back like watering a wilted plant. Even so, he’s getting thinner by the month. Dirtier and more depressed, his once bright pale-blue eyes dimmer as the days wear him down.
I can’t fucking leave him like this tonight.
Not without offering comfort I know he’ll refuse—but dammit, I always have to try.
“When was the last time you ate?” I ask carefully, knowing how much he hates questions.
He slices a dismissive hand through the air.
“Aw, hell. I don’t know. A couple days ago?” He stares past me like he’s really trying to think.
“Did you eat the bear claw?” I ask, propping one leg on the empty box next to him to stretch.
“Nah.” He shoves the rest of the roll in his mouth and shakes his head, taking his sweet time without elaborating. “I traded it to some lady for a couple duck eggs. Scrambled ’em.”
I smile, hoping he isn’t bullshitting me and actually got some protein into his system.
With Wyatt, unfortunately beggars can be choosers.
He’s one stubborn SOB. Always has been, and the streets turned what used to be an asset into a massive liability when the man barely cares about feeding himself these days.
I scan his surroundings, the modest possessions he keeps by the tent. An old canteen, a few empty ceramic pots, a broken bike lock that did nothing to stop some jackass from taking off with a small cart full of his stuff a couple months ago.