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)
"That I am, babe, that I am," he agreed, and I got this gut drop sensation that made my step falter, having the absurd thought that maybe he knew who I was. When my gaze slipped over, though, he was back inside his apartment, his cigarette smoke dancing up through the air.
There would be time to research Finch later. Right now, I had to clean up.
Without a washer in his unit, I filled up the tub, washing, rinsing, rewashing, rinsing, over and over until the stains were gone, until I felt satisfied that every crevice on all the clothes was thoroughly washed, then wringing and hanging them to dry as I got in the shower.
I wouldn't lie, it was refreshing when, after a job, I could actually take a hot shower to scrub off the blood. It definitely beat out the cold, makeshift hose showers of my past.
No matter how hot the water got—and Vance had fixed the heater enough to make the water almost skin-blisteringly hot—there was no getting it off.
The grime.
That coating I had been wearing around on my skin for years. The filth that covered me, that sometimes I swore sank down into my skin, became a part of my soul.
I never felt clean even after scrubbing my skin raw.
I figured it was a small price to pay—never feeling wholly comfortable in my skin, carrying around these blood-soaked hands, not being able to sleep soundly—to be able to make a difference in the world.
I slipped on fresh clothes, ate a couple Devil Dogs, went ahead and poured some soap on my bike like Finch had suggested, but only after having heard him leave for the night.
Then, tired down to my bones, I dropped down on the couch.
I wasn't sure if it was the thunderclaps or the nightmares that finally woke me up. All I knew was I woke up with a fist lodged in my throat, with my heart hammering in my chest, with a cold sweat covering my skin.
I'd tossed and turned for hours, catching snippets of sleep here and there, not nearly enough to take the ache out of my muscles, the heaviness off my eyelids.
On a sigh, I unfolded my body, climbing off the couch, moving out toward the door, opening it up.
I had always liked the rain.
Reading Weather, my Aunt Reese, the local librarian, would say.
Maybe that was part of it. It was an excuse to curl up in pajamas and ignore the world.
At least, that was part of it back then.
Now, though, I liked it because it matched my mood. Especially after a job. Especially after slathering on another layer of filth.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped out into the downpour, sliding down onto the cement slab that acted as a shared porch for all of us, though no one bothered to put out cute rocking chairs or planters filled with happy flowers. This was not the kind of place you lived in because you wanted to, that you wanted to spruce up. It was a stepping stone to someplace else, somewhere that you would put effort into.
All there was, instead, were old cigarettes or cigar stubs or even half-disintegrated joints from the unit to the other side of Finch.
I appreciated the honesty of this shithole of an apartment building.
Almost as much as I appreciated the fact that when they looked out the window to see me sitting there in the rain, they said nothing, did nothing, minded their own damn business.
My eyes drifted closed, my head leaning against a half-crumbling railing, feeling the water soak through my clothes, wash over my skin.
I wondered if I sat in a storm for long enough if it could take a layer or two of the slime away.
I figured it was worth a try.
"Ace, what the fuck are you doing?" Vance's voice asked, shocking me out of my half-consciousness, making a surge of adrenaline course through my system.
I blinked up at him, a towering shadow with glistening hair. "Enjoying the rain," I heard myself mumble.
"People enjoy the rain from the window, not sitting out in it. It's fucking freezing," he added, suddenly making me aware of the chill moving through me. "Come on," he said, going to reach for me before remembering himself, offering me his hand instead. "You're going to get fucking sick," he added.
"You can't get sick from the cold," I told him, my old know-it-all self rearing her giant head.
"No, but it can lower your immune system so that the next time you are exposed to a bug, you can't fight it off as well," he shot back. "This girl I used to know told me that," he added, eyes twinkling a little.
God, that was a good twinkle too.
Something a part of me responded to, making my hand raise, settle into his, letting him pull me back to my feet, lead me inside.