Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“I’m not going back to Brad alive.” I sadistically hiss over her gurgling cries as I drive the weapon upward. “And neither are you.”
Chapter 16
Nolan
An unmatched, exasperated sigh leaves my mouth seconds prior to me calmly pleading from a distance, “Tell me I’m only looking at one dead body, Rabbit.”
The bloody handed female carrying my child slowly rises to a standing position and emotionlessly drops the crimson screwdriver. “You’re only looking at one dead body, Mutt.”
Cautiously approaching the situation that I should’ve been here for – instead of starting and almost finishing our child’s college fund – I try to let levity seep into my tone. “And you’re not jus’ sayin’ that shit to make me happy?”
She hits me with a sarcastic glare I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of. “When do I ever say shit just to make you happy?”
“When you’re on your knees.” The corner of my lip kicks upward. “When you’re on your back.” Closing the gap between us occurs at the same time I wolfishly repeat, “When you’re on your knees again.”
“Don’t make me pick that screwdriver back up.”
Despite knowing whatever I’ve walked into is some sort of shit show, I allow myself a moment to smirk.
To let my shoulders sink.
Breathe.
If Bunny isn’t losing her shit or running afraid from shit and still talking shit, then everything is relatively alright.
It’s when her fires fucking gone that there’s reason to worry.
When she can’t smile.
Look me in the eye.
Speak.
Low, uncomfortable groans begin leaving The Kid further reassuring me that things are manageable.
Fucked.
But manageable.
“Kid…” I call out and prepare to approach when our woman gently slaps my chest with her non-stained hand.
“She hosed him with pepper spray.” Our eyes lock onto one another’s. “That shit is not to be fucked with without gloves.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“It’s highly transferable, and I’d rather not have two boyfriends in agony if it’s avoidable.”
“Fluckkkkkk.” Kid grumbles out louder as he does his best to get into a sitting position. “Fwuckkkkkitblurns.” One hand reaches to touch his forehead causing him to wince. “Kwuckkkdateenng.” Before either of us can say anything, new bursts of panic bombard his system, pushing him to try to scramble to his feet. “Wwwwwuck! Dunny! Dunnyyyyyy!”
“I’m here, babe,” she coos, body obviously anxious to get over to him, yet remains in place. “I’m here.”
“Ohbankdabarmods,” precedes a scratchy cough. “Woo,” more raspy sounds are attached to fumbled movement, “olay?”
“Forfuckssake, Kid, she’s better than you,” I grunt and hustle away to grab supplies. “Can you just…stay fuckin’ put for a second? Let me get some shit to help you?”
“Lime-” he regrettably decides to suck in a deep breath resulting in additional coughing. “F-” Louder gasps of desperation are wedged in between repeated attempts to grasp air. “O-” Gagging from his inability to get enough oxygen amps up my efforts to reach for proper hand guards. “G-”
“I love you, Kid, so, so much, but please, just shut the fuck up,” Rabbit implores. “You’re making your shit worse.”
“How do you know so much about pepper spray?” I inquire during my ransacking of the tool space we’re supposed to keep our box of throwaways. “You cook up the shit yourself or what?”
“It’s not meth,” Rabbit sassily snaps.
“You’re acting like it is.”
“I’m acting like I know what it does because I do. Because I’ve used it. Brad wasn’t the first creep to ever come into my life.”
“He’s gonna be the fucking last,” leaves me split seconds prior to shouting. “Aha! There you are, fuckers!” Hastily grabbing two black gloves is executed in tandem with me asking, “What exactly am I supposed to do?”
“Get him outside to the hose, and I’ll go get some colder water from upstairs to help with the flushing,” our woman instructs while I hustle back to where he’s flailing around. “Fresh air is a major factor.”
“Got it.”
“And don’t-”
“Ou!Ou!Ou!” shrieks The Kid, heel of his palms digging into his eye sockets. “Fluckitdurns!”
“Let him rub it,” she sighs in obvious defeat.
“Hey,” I gingerly start, prying both hands away from the infected area, “you gotta knock that shit off, Kid.”
“Butlitwurns,wolan,” he airily argues.
“Be grateful it’s your eyes and not your dick?”
The joke has him twitching a smile that – much like seeing Rabbit’s – brings me relief.
Again.
This is a shit show.
But at least it’s fucking manageable.
Fixable.
“Just…uh…let me drive.” It’s impossible not to push for another smirk. “You know that shit you hate to let me do.”
“Iloneatemit.”
“Kid.”
“Idustmiketobribedoo!” escapes yet rather than squeaky, its light and scratchy and raspy.
“See why you shouldn’t argue with me,” I playfully scold and begin leading him around the vehicle he was working on by my glove covered hands.
Grunts of unhappiness are the most he offers; however, even those are bit much for the boy who can’t quite breathe.
Getting to the outside wall of the shop isn’t difficult, and thankfully, neither is getting the hose turned on or the water flowing.