Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 28642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 115(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 115(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Climbing out of the truck, he saw the light from the TV coming through the living room window, the corner of the glass having old and peeling duct tape to try to mend the crack. This place was what he called home, even if it was a piece of shit one-story house that held a lot of bad memories.
Walking up the driveway, he kicked away an empty beer can and climbed the broken and uneven wooden steps to the porch. He could smell the weed already saturating the air before he even opened the front door. He knew what he’d see once he stepped inside, knew his dad was probably passed out on the couch, maybe even with some random chick on top of him. The place would be trashed, as it always was, and it was because his old man just didn’t give a shit.
When he opened the door and stepped inside, he looked into the living room, seeing exactly what he expected. He walked farther in the house and pushed his truck keys into the front pocket of his jeans, shaking his head and thinking how he couldn’t wait until he finally left this place. If he wasn’t used to the sights and smells whenever he came home, this might be a depressing thing to walk in on, but the fact remained he was used to it.
God, all he wanted to do was go back to Lena and just hold her. She made everything seem better, made the world look less fucked up. She was his light in this dirty, grimy darkness.
The sound of the television on low in the background was just loud enough he didn’t have to look at the screen to know porn was playing. His old man was on the stained and frayed gray couch with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, his arm hanging off the cushion, and his potbelly protruding under his wife-beater that should have been white but looked more brown. If Rory wasn’t stuck here, having no place else to go, wanting to finish school, and loving Lena too much to just leave like that, he would have gotten the fuck out of here.
Rory turned and went into the kitchen, exhausted from being up all night and being with Lena, but hell, what a fucking reason to be tired. He filled a glass with tap water and drank it as he stared out the window.
Old tires were stacked up against the nearly debilitated shed a few yards away. A car that was on cinder blocks, the wheels stripped, the paint gone to hell, and the engine gone, sat beside the shed. The yard was trashy, just like Brian, just like Rory’s life had been. Hell, the grass wasn’t even green—what little grass there actually was—and hadn’t been for years. It was like the grass had realized what a shitty life it had on this strip of property, and said, “fuck this.”
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and the feeling of someone watching him filled him. Rory set the glass down and turned to look at his dad.
Brian Jaymes might have been a decent human back in the day, but Rory didn’t remember a time when he wasn’t hassled by the man. After his mother died when Rory was only two, Brian told him he’d had no choice but to take care of “the kid.” But Brian hadn’t taken care of him, not in the sense that a parent took care of their child.
Rory had done that all on his own, had dealt with everything that was thrown at him, and always came out standing. He hadn’t put up with his father’s shit since he was ten years old and could defend himself. He might have gotten knocked around back then still, but that didn’t mean he didn’t at least try to fight back. And then when he’d gotten old enough to actually do some damage, his old man had at least thought twice about laying a hand on him. Of course when he was drunk, like Rory could tell he was right now, the fucker thought he was Iron Man.
Brian didn’t say anything for several seconds and then walked into the kitchen, opened the freezer, and grabbed a bottle of vodka. He popped the lid and drank straight from it. When he had his fill for the moment and set the bottle down on the yellow seventies-style Formica counter, he looked at Rory.
“It’s late as fuck, boy.” Brian paused a moment. “Where you been?”
“Out,” Rory said and went to move past him, but his dad grabbed his arm. Rory stopped, breathed in and out to calm himself, and looked at his dad. “You better get your hands off me,” Rory said, knowing that his old man was drunk enough he might start shit. Rory didn’t allow himself to get beat anymore, though. He threw punches back.