Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
"I've stayed in worse," I admitted. Because it was true. And because, apparently, some small, deeply buried part of me still wanted to be on his good side.
Those first crushes, they never fully die, do they?
"Maybe you can tell me about it sometime," he offered, but kept moving, not letting it get awkward, reaching into his wallet to find a key.
"How long were you crashing here?" I asked as he shouldered the stuck door.
"Four, five months. Something like that. It wasn't as bad as it looks, really. I was used to sleeping in the back of a van a lot of the time. With five other guys. At least here I got some solitude. Alright, here we go. Welcome," he said, moving inside, leaving me to fall behind.
I had maybe been too generous in calling it a shoebox. It looked just about big enough to house a family of squirrels.
Predominantly one room with a closet of a space to the back that I figured to be the bathroom, there was a pretty badly worn brown material couch that, judging by the blanket draping it and the pillows butted against the arm, also served as the bed.
Would it be lumpy and uncomfortable? Yes. But also likely more cozy than my old mattress on the floor.
Behind the couch was what must have been considered the kitchen which consisted of a mini-fridge, a sink, and a microwave.
That was just as well.
I didn't have many cooking skills to speak of either.
Once upon a time, I had been a pretty decent Christmas cookie baker.
In another time, another life.
I hadn't even seen a chocolate chip in the better part of a decade.
The heat seemed to come from a small space heater tucked a few feet away from the couch. There was no AC. Not that those things mattered. I had gotten on well enough without them for many years.
"Everything is empty," he told me, waving a hand toward the cupboard and the fridge. "Except there is likely a bottle of whiskey in the freezer. I will grab you some stuff."
"I can—"
"No," he cut me off, shaking his head. "If we are going to pull this off, you have to lay low here. There's not much in the way of entertainment. Got my old record player and some records I left here that I had repeats of. I can maybe grab you some books. You still into the true crime and history shit?"
Was I?
I hadn't had access to books in years.
But I still remembered, of course, all the endless hours I had once spent with my nose buried inside them, escaping from the real world when it was not exciting enough.
Now, though, the real world was plenty exciting. Maybe it would be nice to escape to something calmer.
"Not true crime or thrillers," I decided. "Anything but that."
"Anything but that," he repeated, mulling over the words, looking for the meaning behind them. "Got it. What about food? You still all about the coffee and crunchy cheese puffs and half-sour pickles?"
More memories, ones that had been so buried under flavorless chicken, sweet potatoes, and the rotation of green beans, peas, broccoli, and asparagus.
I'd had coffee.
Plain black coffee.
The kind that could damn near put hair on your chest.
Everything else, though—just part of my past. Cheese, sugar, most carbs. I hadn't touched them in years. Holden was in charge of obtaining and cooking food. I was simply grateful to eat after a hard day of training. I stopped dreaming of junk food years ago.
"Yes," I told him without hesitation. "And Devil Dogs."
"Devil Dogs," he repeated, lips curving up slightly.
That wasn't one of my public junk food binges. Devil Dogs were my secret binge food. The thing I feasted on in private after a bad day.
Doing poorly on a test.
Getting that look of disappointment from my mother.
Having a silly fight with Iggy.
Watching Vance hit on another girl in front of me while it was painfully clear I was mad for him.
I would stop at the convenience store, grab a box, hide it in my backpack, lock myself in my room, and plow through the entire thing.
I shouldn't have needed the comfort.
I hadn't needed anything even resembling comfort items in so long that I was sure I was above such things.
Even when I had seen and done the most horrifying things a person could imagine.
I managed.
Without a soft blanket.
Without music.
Without books.
Without fucking Devil Dogs.
But all it took to bring back old habits was simply stepping foot in my hometown?
What would happen after a couple hours, a couple days?
Would it make me soft all over again?
No.
No, of course not.
I couldn't let it.
"Alright, well, I can manage all that. What about clothes? Doesn't look like you brought much in that bag on your bike."
I hadn't.
Because I didn't own much.
Three days worth of clothes. A notebook I'd taken from the workout room because Holden wasn't using it, a place I used to write once every year. On my birthday. Why, I wasn't sure. To remember? For my family to have should I die, to know why I ran, what I ran to do, all the things I had been through?