Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 124029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 620(@200wpm)___ 496(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 620(@200wpm)___ 496(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Surprisingly, the one thing that wasn’t a total disaster was working with West. Not that we’d become best buddies or anything. Ever since he’d started working at That Taco Truck, waves upon waves of new customers began knocking on our window. It had gotten so bad we had to put up a sign advising people they had to make a purchase in order to get a selfie with the Almighty St. Claire.
But Karlie was right. They did.
Twice, I’d had to call Mrs. Contreras to get more ingredients because we’d run out, and most days, we barely had time to breathe, let alone engage in small talk. But the shifts passed quickly, and by the time I went home, every bone in my body ached.
West worked with his shirt off the entire first week. The second week, he brought a portable A/C. It looked brand-new, and dang expensive. He pretended that it was no big deal that he’d just bought (stole?) an air-con that was probably going to save our lives. He put it smack-dab between us, turned it on blast, and stood beside it casually. It was the day I realized not all heroes wore capes. Some were clad in dirty Diesel jeans, Blundstones, and shirts that had seen better days.
Despite my unexplainable need not to like him, I had to mutter a quick thank you.
“What’s that?” He cupped his ear, a mischievous glint lighting up his eyes.
Dang you, St. Claire.
“I said thank you,” I murmured under my breath.
“Why, you’re very welcome. Now you can stop ogling me. I feel objectified already.”
It made me laugh so hard, I let out a horrifying snort. We both knew I’d avoided looking directly at his bare torso.
Lord. I’d snorted. In front of West St. Claire. Death by humiliation had never seemed so viable.
“I’m sorry. I sounded like a pig.” I covered my face with both hands.
He threw a piece of fish at me.
“If you were an animal, what would you be?”
“A phoenix,” I said, without even giving it some thought. My hand shot to my broken flame ring, turning it on my thumb. West nodded. I didn’t know why, but somehow I had a feeling he knew exactly what I was talking about.
“You?” I asked.
“Koala. I’d get to sleep all day, but still be cute as fuck, so getting laid wouldn’t be an issue.”
“I heard koalas are actually pretty vicious. And stinky. And are prone to poop on people.” I offered my useless knowledge of wildlife. Good thing I wasn’t trying to flirt. Talking with hot men was definitely not my forte.
He considered this. “Well, that’s just selling me the koala gig even more.”
Other than that conversation, we were polite, but professional. I’d eased into the idea of us coexisting like treading into a dark, strange basement. There was no immediate reason to suspect I’d get hurt, but it was still scary.
I couldn’t help but stare each time I noticed a new welt or bruise on his body. I never mentioned it, though. And the few times I saw him outside the food truck, at school sitting in the cafeteria or on the lawn by the fountain, or the grocery store, all we did was nod to each other and look away.
Two and a half weeks after West and I began working together, my life fell apart in a spectacular fashion, reminding me normal simply wasn’t in the cards for me.
It was late evening. An unexpected graveyard shift after the Westival (West Festival) of the last few weeks. There was a spring fair two towns over, and every Sheridan citizen and their mother seemed to take advantage of the activity and drove up to Foothill to enjoy the rodeo, stale popcorn, candy floss, tilt-a-whirl, and bluebonnet blossom.
Fireworks blasted beyond the darkened yellow dunes. West and I watched them from the food truck window in childish awe, shoulder to shoulder. My phone buzzed in my hoodie’s pocket. I checked the caller ID. Marla. I picked up, knowing she wasn’t one to interrupt me at work unless it was important. I turned my back on the fireworks and ambled inside, pressing a finger to my ear so I could hear her through the explosions.
“Heya, Marla.”
“Honey, I don’t want you getting too worried, but I can’t find the old bat. Ten minutes I’ve been lookin’ for her, but I don’t think she’s home.”
Marla talked about Grams with earnest disdain, which I’d learned to warm up to.
My breath caught in my throat. I leaned against the fridge, feeling my anxiety climbing up my toes to the rest of my body, like little ants.
“Did she look lucid to you last time you saw her?”
“She spent a whole lotta time in her room today, gettin’ fancy. I thought maybe she wanted to go to the fair, so I let her do her thing while I cleaned up the kitchen, waiting for her to come downstairs. The radio was on—you know what her hearing’s like—I must’ve missed it when she opened the front door. My car’s still in the garage, so she couldn’t have gone far. I’m going to look for her now. I just wanted to keep you in the loop.”