Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Everyone stands there, but I’m not saying anything. This isn’t on me.
Finally, Army pipes up, “Nothing!” And he pushes Trace toward their work truck.
“Then get to work!”
Iron’s eyes don’t leave mine, and I shouldn’t, but I smile just a little, because he has to leave, and now, so can I.
“Iron, let’s go!” Army shouts. “We’re late.” I hear the others climb into the truck. My smirk grows, the challenge hanging between us.
Iron jerks his head, looking at Macon. “Give me your knife.”
“Why?”
“Just give it to me, Macon!”
Iron holds out his hand, and Macon hesitates as the truck’s engine starts up. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a pocket knife, tossing it to Iron.
Iron swipes it midair and twists around, heading back toward the restaurant down the street.
We all stand and watch as he stalks toward the stairs, but then he stops at my dad’s Benz, unsheathes the blade, and it hits me what he’s going to do.
“No!” I growl, but I’m too late.
He bends over, stabs the front left tire, dragging the blade through the rubber to widen the gash.
“Ah!” I cry as laughter goes off in the truck behind me.
Iron runs over, tosses the knife back to Macon, and smiles. “Change that one, too?”
“You son of a—” Macon bites out, charging up next to me as we both watch Iron-fucking-Jaeger pull himself up and over the side, hopping into the truck bed.
“What the hell are you doing?” I scream.
He flashes me a white smile.
I ball my fists. “You asshole!”
He lets his head fall back as he laughs. “Go, go, go!” he shouts to Army in the cab.
They all howl as Army speeds off.
“Whoo!” Trace hollers.
“Goddammit!” Macon calls after them.
“I can order an Uber, you know!” I shout.
“We’ll be back at five o’clock!” Iron calls out, leaning up on his knees as they drive off. “Tell Mariette we want our usual, and can you make those stuffed mushrooms you brought on the Fourth of July?”
“I’m not making you shit!”
“But I’m going to prison, Krisjen.”
He sounds so fucking innocent, like I’m going to feel sorry for him. Trace covers his face with his hands, unable to stop his laughter.
They disappear down the street as Macon and I just stand there. Paisleigh giggles inside my car.
“God—” Macon says through his teeth. “Son of a …”
I look up at him, his scowl darkening as he turns from the truck that just sped off down to me.
I shrug. “It’s not my fault,”
“Just …” he grits out, holding up his hands like he’s going to strangle someone before gesturing to Mariette’s. “Get over there and work this off. So help me God, I’m going to fucking explode right now.”
I don’t have a chance to argue further before he walks back into the garage, but I’m not sure I would’ve anyway. I would just leave. If I had a car.
I kick a rock, looking over at the Mercedes that now sits as lopsided as my Rover did last night. Fuuuuuck these boys.
Dammit!
I grab my sister out of the car and walk back to Mariette’s, shouting at Macon as I pass by the garage. “I’m keeping my tips!”
I spy the clock over the menu on the wall and pick up my pace, setting the sandwiches down in front of the two old ladies and collecting their empty dish of appetizers.
I wanted to be gone before five, so Iron can’t gloat when he walks in and sees me here.
The day went quickly, though. For my first time working ever, it’s not that bad. It feels like I’m being helpful, and I like that. Bring ’em drinks. Take their orders. Refill sodas. Clear plates.
It’s kind of fun. I like people.
And the best part is I kept busy. The other server left early, so I’ve been swamped since noon, and although it was stressful to cover that many tables by myself, it was also strangely satisfying to multitask. Refill at table four, clean fork needed at table eight, order’s up for table thirteen, hot sauce for table one …
I did something today. And did it well. I was never a great student, and an even worse athlete, but I’m good under pressure. Who knew.
“Hey, back again?” I ask, dropping menus in front of two road workers I just saw at lunch.
The one to my right grins, his blond mullet sticking out of his trucker hat, but honestly, he makes it work.
“We like pie,” he teases.
The other one laughs, and I set their waters down as I dart my eyes to the wedding ring on his finger.
“Well, be sure to take some home to your wife,” I reply.
The other one chuckles, and I don’t look back as I walk away.
I wipe down a couple of tables, positioning place settings, when the screen door flaps closed behind me.
“Krisjen! We had so much fun!” my sister boasts. “I love those boats!”