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)
I take a swig, wincing when I taste whiskey. He raises his eyebrows at me, because I’m a bold little minor, aren’t I? But he doesn’t say it out loud, just goes back to his baking.
“That kind of sucked.” I twist the cap back on and set it down. “What a long day.”
“But I bet that wad of tips in your apron doesn’t suck.”
I chuckle. No, it doesn’t. Bateman returned the next day for Mars and Paisleigh, so my mom must’ve paid him somehow, but Army told me if I need to leave at any time, then I need to leave. They’d deal with it.
A few customers remain on the patio, but the restaurant inside is empty, except for Jessica mopping the floor. It’s after nine. I should get home. My mom will be on her third vodka tonic by now.
“How’s the family?” Santos asks.
“Can’t complain.” I can, but I won’t. “Yours?”
“My oldest wants to be a plumber,” he mumbles. “He got accepted to Texas A&M.”
That’s impressive. But … “Not everyone has to go to college,” I remind him.
“Easy for you to say when it’s someone else’s kid.”
I pause, thinking about that one. “Fair enough,” I tell him. “We’ll pick up this conversation again when it’s my child.”
“Deal.”
Although entirely different situations, he’s coming from the same place my mother is. They want the best opportunities for their children, but the difference is, my mother is willing to do—or force me to do—whatever it takes to ensure it.
Not sure she would’ve let me go to college, even if my dad hadn’t taken all the money.
And I’m not sure I would’ve gone either way.
I want to work, but just as a means to enjoy my life. To pay for trips to the drive-in with Mars and Paisleigh, and big meals with family and friends, and cute clothes that keep my husband’s eyes all over me.
And helping those around me who need it.
College would be a waste of money. At least right now. I have no desire for a career.
Iris bursts through the back door, breathing hard. “Can someone help me in the bar, please?” she whines, pulling bags of mixed nuts off the rack and piling them in her arms. “The Torreses are coming in with a shitload of people. I’m getting tables together now, but I’ll need help taking orders.”
Santos looks through the warmer, probably trying to see who else is still here, because I’ve already worked a double shift.
I debate for a split second, but then I say, “I can stick around for a little while longer.”
Guilt hits me, but I push it aside. The kids are fine. My mom raised the three of us so far without any deaths. I’ll only be a couple more hours.
Iris smiles, her shoulders relaxing. “Thanks. Please hurry.”
I tap out a text to Mars. Working a little longer. Text if there’s a problem.
And I stand up to follow her, but Santos pushes a brown bag into my chest. “Take this over first.”
I grab hold of Macon’s dinner, still not having told Mariette that he almost never eats it.
But yet … he continues to let her send it.
Tucking my phone in my back pocket, I push up the sleeves of my black hoodie and walk out of the restaurant, seeing the glow of the garage lights down the lane.
I haven’t seen Macon all day, and I don’t see the boys’ trucks out front, either. It’s better when Army or Trace is in the garage with him. I hate being alone with him. He doesn’t like me.
Everyone else likes me.
But when I veer right, into the garage, I see the hood of my car up, a work light hanging inside, and a Bluetooth speaker on a shelf playing an alternate rendition of Nirvana’s “Something in the Way.”
But there’s no one here.
“Hello?” I inch in, looking around the car for legs. The door to the kitchen is open, and I call out again. “Hello?”
But he’s not in earshot. I reach out, setting the bag down on his worktable, but then I hear a cry in the distance. “Please!”
I stop, some muffled sobs pricking my ears.
“No!” the man wails again.
The voice doesn’t sound familiar.
I jerk my eyes to the back door of the garage, seeing that it hangs open just slightly.
Keeping my feet light and quiet, I head for the back of the shop. “Please, just let me out!”
What the hell? I force my feet to keep going, slipping through the back door and looking around the pool, not seeing anyone. It’s coming from the woods. I walk across the deck, into the brush, and see a light.
“Please, Macon,” a man begs.
Macon comes into view, standing in the doorway of a container. Like the ones they put on the backs of semitrucks, with no windows and a lock on the outside. Has that always been sitting back here? I’ve never noticed.