Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
“Why?”
He shrugged a shoulder, twirling a piece of my hair around his finger while I stroked tiny circles on his chest.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
His fingers brushed my cheek before he rolled to his back, holding my hand captive.
“I really thought he was okay.” I rested my forehead against his broad shoulder, and his hold on my hand tightened.
“No, he’s fucking scum.”
Max was, and the fact I had ever thought otherwise made me stupid. Lesson learned. Again. Trust no one. Except maybe Zeppelin Hunt of all people.
13
Zepp
The next morning, I dropped Monroe at the entrance of the trailer park because she asked me not to take her at her house. She got off the bike and dragged the toe of her boot over the ground, leaving a line in the dirt.
“Thanks. For.” Another swipe of her foot. “You know.”
“Yeah.”
Her gaze met mine for a moment before she turned and started walking away.
I waited until she made it halfway down the dirt path before I took off on my bike, speeding past her, then swinging into Wolf’s drive. His dad was on the porch, pouring out food for the stray cats in the neighborhood.
“Hey, son.” He straightened, taking his Bible from the porch railing and tucking it underneath his arm.
“Hey, Mr. Brookes.”
“How’s your brother?”
“Good.”
One of the cats jumped up through the porch spindles, slinking around Mr. Brookes’ ankle. He bent down to stroke its back. “About to leave for church. If you wanna go?”
Any time I showed up on a Sunday, he’d ask me, and every time I would say, “Maybe next time.”
“A’ight then.” He patted my back before he started down the steps to his car, then I slipped inside Wolf’s trailer.
Out of all of us, Wolf had the closest to what I would call a home. Frilly curtains framed the windows, and a floral area rug spread out in front of the sofa. Knick knacks covered the shelves of the entertainment center. His dad hadn’t changed a thing since Wolf’s mom had died from cancer a year ago. And I got it. I hadn’t even opened the door to my mom’s room.
“Where you at, Wolf?” I shouted across the trailer.
“Getting food.” A cabinet door closed. Wolf shuffled into the living room with a half-gallon of milk and a box of Fruity Pebbles. He sank onto the couch, cradling the milk while he shoved his hand inside the cereal box. “You took Monroe home?”
That would be the only reason I was on this side of town so early. “Yeah.”
He tossed the plastic milk cap to the table, then lifted the container to his lips and chugged. “Shit’s fucked up, dude.”
And it was. It really fucking was. I expected a lot out of Barrington kids, but what happened Friday night took them from being rich pricks to absolutely worthless pieces of shit. I fell back onto the recliner in the corner of the room, swiping a hand down my face.
“You worried you’re gonna get arrested?”
“No.” Honestly, I didn’t care if I did.
Monroe wouldn’t have stood a chance at getting that son-of-a-bitch arrested, and if my beating the shit out of him was all she got, well, it was better than nothing.
“Too bad you didn’t kill him.” Wolf shoved another fistful of cereal into his mouth before grabbing the remote and turning on the TV, flipping to the NFL previews. And I sat there, zoned out, half paying attention because all I could think about was Monroe.
I stayed at Wolf’s until dinner. His dad heated up some Hungry Mans and made me say the blessing. After we’d eaten, I went by my house, grabbed my baseball bat, headed to the junkyard on the south side, and scaled the fence.
It had been months since I had come here, months since I had needed an outlet. For a while, after my mom had died, I’d made this a nightly stop, beating and bashing up old cars, taking out my anger with each swing of my bat. And while I had tried to get every ounce of rage out of my system when I took this bat to Harford, it hadn’t been enough.
I made my way through the heaps of scrap metal and rusted appliances. The distant whoosh of cars on the interstate sounded like some inner-city crash of waves, but it did little to soothe the tension coiled in my muscles. With each step over the littered ground, my grip on the bat tightened. Over the past few days, guilt had mixed with the constant stream of anger that hummed through my veins. Guilt because I felt I unintentionally had a part to play in everything that had happened to Monroe. I couldn’t help but think I’d set in motion a chain reaction, some screwed up domino effect that ended with Harford slipping that drug into her drink. I pulled the bat back over my shoulder and swung at the fender of an old Ford truck. The wood cracked against the metal, the impact vibrating up my arms. I aimed, then took another swing. How much of what happened was about Harford hating me, hating that Leah had a fling with me? I had no doubts that his selfishness and wanting to piss me off was a driving force.