Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
“Does she know?”
“Yeah,” he answers slowly. “It’s one of the conditions of me paying for all her shit.” His lips curl into a frightening smile. “What she doesn’t know is that I have a backup app installed. So if she shuts off the main one, I’ll still be able to find her.”
“Wow, you are…sneaky.”
“No, kids are sneaky. I’m just smarter.” He shrugs. “She’s a good egg. Hasn’t tampered with it yet.”
I cock my head and study him for a moment. “Do you have access to everything on her phone?”
“Are you asking if I spy on my sister? Read her texts?”
“Yes.”
His lips twist, like he’s debating if he should lie to me or not. “Yes, I have access. No, I don’t spy on her. Unless I have to.” He blows out a breath. “Trust me, I don’t have time to waste reading all her back and forths with her friends about what time they’re meeting at Panera and what kind of mac and cheese is superior.”
I press my hand to my lips and snicker. “Sounds like you snoop a little.”
Jigsaw smirks, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe just a tad,” he admits, his tone playful. “But only to make sure she’s not getting into anything too crazy. She’s a good kid but she’s gone through a wild phase or two.”
“She’s lucky to have you looking out for her,” I say softly, feeling a twinge of envy for the closeness they seem to share. My own older brothers have certainly never been so concerned about me. “How big is the gap between you two?”
“About eight years.”
“Ah, both of my brothers are a lot older. They were teenagers when I was born, and I think resented my presence.”
“Really? They didn’t look out for you? Protect their baby sister?”
I snort and shake my head with disbelief. “No.”
“Shit, Teller has ten years on his sister, and he’s always looked out for her the best he could.”
“I’m close to my cousin. He’s only a few years older than me. He’d protect me in school, but he got picked on too, so…” Why am I talking about any of this like it still matters?
“Actually, I don’t know why I’m surprised.” He hesitates as if he’s not sure he wants to continue. “I had older brothers too, but they took off when they turned eighteen. Didn’t give a fuck about me or Jezzie.”
“Are they…have you ever tried to find them?”
He pauses for an even longer time before answering. “Yeah, once or twice.”
I swallow hard, afraid to ask my next question, but unable to stop myself. “You said it’s possible your dad may have killed your mom…is it possible he…?”
“It’s possible.” He reaches for his glass and spins it in a slow circle. “I’ve thought of that too. It was one of his ‘wives’ who helped me escape—”
“Wait, one of his wives?”
He shoots a sharp look at me that snaps my mouth shut. “I don’t know what else to call them. He had a bunch of women around we were supposed to call ‘Momma this or that.’ He’d refer to them as his wives. But there were other ‘elder’ type men around who had leadership roles too and other kids who came with their families.”
“So, do you have more siblings out there?”
“Probably,” he answers slowly, still turning the glass around and around. “Don’t really want to find out, honestly.”
“I don’t blame you.” Should I continue or drop it? He doesn’t seem happy talking about this. “You said one of them helped you escape?”
“Yeah.” He curls his fingers over his shoulder, tapping his back. “The last whipping I took was so bad, she was afraid he’d kill me.” A pained smile crosses his face. “She was a nice girl. Took a big risk to give me a few things so I could leave.” He shrugs. “Didn’t matter. I got to school and passed out from an infection. People found out what happened to me—”
“Was your father arrested?”
“Nope.” His tone’s laced with a dull bitterness.
“What about Jezzie?”
“Didn’t have a mark on her.”
“How’d you escape, then?”
“Rooster’s aunt and uncle came and got me.”
His playful, confident demeanor has changed so drastically over the course of this conversation. His answers dwindling down to just the basics when there must be more to it. I’m used to counseling people in one specific area of tragedy. Grief and loss. This is so much more complex. What should I say?
Joining a motorcycle club makes sense. The complete opposite of the religious oppression he grew up in but also a somewhat strict and orderly organization where they dress similarly and have to attend mandatory meetings. Although, the intent with a cult is to control the person by restricting their thoughts and access to information, while the motorcycle club doesn’t restrict anything unless it could potentially harm the whole club.
Okay, definitely don’t point out the similarities—or differences— between a cult and an MC. He won’t appreciate that.