Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105370 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105370 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
I order a couple of the boys who are wandering around to bring the pole out to the center stage. I can see out of the corner of my eye that Val is stretching on a beam. Ignoring her, I focus on my practice.
“Val?” I yell, and she turns to face me, her golden hair looking every bit Serena van der Woodson. “Do you care if I put music on?”
Val rolls her eyes. “No, Little Bird, I don’t.”
Tim, I think Delila said his name is, points to my phone. “Hook your phone up to the Bluetooth system, and you’ll have free reign. The Brothers will be practicing in a couple hours, so it’s all yours until then.”
I smile. “Thank you.” Flicking through my playlist, I drop my phone onto the ground after leaving “Mother’s Daughter” by Miley Cyrus playing. I need to warm up and stretch, since I haven’t done much of that for a while. Bending over, I stretch out my hamstrings, before sliding to the ground and spreading my legs wide, leaning forward onto the ground and finishing in a front split. The music is warming me up as much as my stretches are. When I’m ready, I flick through my phone again. I know I want to have a different song for every town. Depending on my mood, I want to express it through my dance. I’ve always been good at channeling my emotions into my limbs. I’m feeling angry and reckless, and somewhat, warped. I push play on “Carousel” by Melanie Martinez and smirk. “So fitting.” When the beat kicks in, I grab ahold of the pole and swing around it. I’m lost for three minutes and fifty seconds. I hit repeat, deciding this will definitely be the song I’m dancing to tonight, and work on my routine.
“We need to talk about her.” Killian’s persistence to talk about Dove is wearing on my patience. He puts on a good front, he’s the best at it, but we all know that she is also wearing on his restraint.
“We don’t.”
“What are you doing, King? Kissing her and rubbing up on her like a dog in heat. Since when was that part of the plan?” Keaton questions, this time, his eyes trained on me. I shuffle off the couch, tearing my shirt off. “I get it. She’s hot as sin, but we knew that. You knew that.”
Flopping back down, I place a smoke in my mouth and light it up. “I’m playing with my food, so what?”
“King,” Killian warns. “Not a good idea. What happens when we have to do the delivery?”
I glare at him, bored. “What the fuck are you talking about, Chatty Kathy? I’ve seen the way you look at her.”
“Because you wanna get your dick wet all of a sudden?” Keaton argues. He wants my attention, and now he has it.
I get off the couch and make my way to where he’s leaning against the doorframe. “What are you afraid of, Keats? Scared that if we play some games with her that she’ll break?” I tilt my head and search his eyes. “Her finish line is rather fucking close, so why not?”
“She’s not what I was expecting.” Keaton’s shoulders are straight, his eyes lighting in defiance.
“What part of her? The part where she was always the pawn in our game to end a long-time beef?”
Keaton growls. “I don’t fucking know. She’s just not what I expected.”
I lick my lip and smirk. “Yeah, I could have an idea why that is.”
Keaton’s eyes narrow, his suspicion growing. “And why is that?”
I make my way back to the couch and drop down, blowing out a cloud of smoke. I have two options here: I can tell this idiot exactly what he needs to know. To put him out of his misery, or I can add it to my bag of tricks and save it for later.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out, answering instantly. “Mother.”
“Kingston. I need an update.” I can already imagine what she’s doing. Sitting behind her long table, a smoke in one hand and a glass of vodka in the other.
I lean back. “Where are you?”
“Italy. I’ll be back in the US in a couple weeks. Tell Killian his father is calling a meeting too, which we will need you all to attend.”
I smirk. Into my bag of tricks it goes.
One of my earliest memories was of my mom dropping me off at my ballet class with tears strolling down her face. I never knew why she was crying. I would have been all of six, or maybe just turning seven. I can’t remember anything prior to this memory, and any time I would ask my mom about it, she would say that I suffered from PTSD as a small child and part of my condition was that I blocked out memories prior to that. I would counter what she said and say that usually people would at least have black spots. Or flashes of events that happened early, but I had nothing. Zilch. It was a strange feeling, not having any early memories. Not even some monumental thing that had happened. It’s something I have always thought about while not really thinking about it. Hovering in the back of my brain like a bad memory. I never did find out why she was crying that day. My mother never cried. Shedding such raw emotion is not in her nature. Was not in her nature, so seeing her cry moved me enough to make it stick in my brain. Even now, as I make my way back to the RV, after practicing a solid two hours on my act, I’m here thinking about something that happened over a decade ago.