Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 28432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
He looks like I’ve slapped him but quickly recovers, his face going blank again. Maybe he wasn’t thinking about that at all. “I could use some help moving this junk to my workshop. It’s a mile or two down the road.”
“You’re going to pay me to help you move your stuff?” I repeat, studying the man. “You’re bigger than me. You could move all of this easily.”
“Hip is acting up,” he grits out, like it physically pains him to acknowledge his weakness in front of me. “It’ll take me twice as long to get it done by myself.”
“What happened to it?” I ask. I know you’re not supposed to ask people about injuries and medical conditions. But I can’t help being curious about Trace.
He waves it away, clearly not taking offense to my question. “Horse riding accident as a kid. I got bucked. Never got medical attention so it healed wrong.”
“Well, what’s in your workshop? I thought there was something about serial killers moving you to a second location, and it’s been a shitty week. But I don’t want to end up murdered because I trusted the wrong person.”
“But you’ll hide in the back of a car driven by three addicts,” he answers.
“Yeah, I know it was a dumb decision. You don’t have to point it out. But I didn’t know they were crackheads which leads me to think that I don’t know if you’re a serial killer.”
He wipes a hand down his face like he finds me utterly exhausting. He wouldn’t be the first person, but the gesture still pierces my heart all the same.
“My point is just that one bad decision in the past shouldn’t keep me from making good decisions now. Also, I was tired and didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was getting out the next time they stopped at a gas station.”
He pulls his phone from the table and punches something into it then he passes me the device. I accept it and scan an article with his picture next to it. He’s a master welder that’s been commissioned by a mall owned in Asheville. He does something called gas metal arc welding. I don’t even know what that is, but it sounds cool.
I chew on my lip and return the phone to him. Earning some money would be nice. Getting to spend a little more time around the mountain man would be even nicer. “That doesn’t sound like a serial killer’s biography.”
“We work hard to be normal nowadays,” he drawls. One side of his mouth quirks up in an almost smile.
I nod and survey the house. “Might take a few hours. Why do you keep this stuff here if you have a workshop somewhere else?”
“Donations. People donate their old shit and I haul it back up here. Look through it and toss out what I can’t use.”
He doesn’t appear to have done much tossing out of things. Still, I don’t think I should needle him about that. Instead, I say, “So the piles are sorted by...”
“Types of metal. Some types aren’t useful for welding. Some are,” he answers and finally gets to his feet. There’s the briefest flicker of pain in his eyes, and I hate that. I hate that he hurts, but I turn away. He’s like me in some ways, too proud for anyone’s pity.
We spend the next three hours loading the back of his truck with junk, and we’ve barely made a dent in the messy house. It’s all useless stuff to me but he looks at it the same way I look at clay. With a gleam in his eyes, like he’s imagining all the things it could be.
By the time we’re done, my t-shirt is hot and sticky. The sky overhead still promises rain, but it hasn’t delivered it yet.
Trace and I cover the bed of the pickup with a tarp, tying it down. I ignore the way the muscles in my arms protest from the hard work I’ve been doing. It’s worth it to spend a little more time with this man.
“You said the workshop is only a couple miles down the road?” I ask to confirm after Trace has tossed me a water bottle. I drain it, thankful I’m no longer dizzy like I was earlier today. A good home-cooked meal and a few glasses of water have made me feel so much better. Or maybe it’s just being around Trace and feeling so safe.
Princess struts onto the porch without her floppy hat. She stares at Trace.
“Don’t you be looking at me like that,” he grumps.
She meows mournfully.
“Alright, you can go.” He opens the truck door, and she scampers inside quickly.
I join her, taking the passenger side of the bench seat. The truck is at least forty years old judging by the vintage radio. But I kind of love the vehicle. It fits Trace.