Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
“Really,” I say. “We can go to museums, drink coffee, take selfies, and breathe the sea air. It’ll be great.”
“Really, Mary?” he asks. “You don’t have to protect my feelings. If you think it’s lame, just tell me.”
Just tell me, as if any of this is that simple. I wish it were. I wish I could just tell him without the world imploding, but everything would change. We’d never be able to go back. Maybe it would sound melodramatic to some, but the world would feel as if it’s crumbling and tearing apart. Brad has basically been my dad for the past seven years, putting his own dreams on hold, and I let his best friend fuck and tattoo me.
“It’s not lame,” I say. I’d say anything. “I can’t wait. It’s going to be like we always talked about. I just hope I can get the time off work.”
Brad winks. “I’ve already spoken to your boss.”
He looks so happy, so energized, so in his element. It would take somebody unbelievably cruel to ruin that now. Or is that just another pathetic excuse?
“It’s going to be great.” That means I’ll have to buy a pregnancy kit sneakily without Brad noticing. I pause, then ask as casually as possible, “Does Rust know we’re coming?”
“No,” Brad says. “Marquis, his coach, said he wants it to be a surprise.”
I almost put my hand on my belly, feeling the life growing there. No, I don’t know that yet, but yeah, a surprise. That sounds about right.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
RUST
I jog through the park in the middle of the night, wearing a hoodie with the hood pulled up, dark pants, and dark sneakers. Nobody knows it’s Rust Hadley, whose billboard is plastered all over the state. Nobody cares about the big man running through the dark. Even those who creep out at night know to stay away from me. It’s in my posture, my gait.
Today’s training was a write-off, too—a goddamn write-off. My footsteps pound against the concrete. It was MMA sparring, usually what I’m best at, mixing it all together. It’s about minimizing the time between the techniques, fluidity, and muscle memory. Somehow, I feel changed, struggling to focus and think. Or to not think. The problem isn’t physical. It’s in my head and my heart. It’s Mary. Fuck. I want to see her so badly.
I keep running, three, four miles now. I’m running too much, as if I can outpace the demons trailing me, mocking me, telling me I’m a terrible friend. I run through the park toward the bad part of the city. I moved here for the gym, one of the best in the world. I live in a nice part of town. There’s no reason to be here, but sometimes, I want to remind myself who I am. The dirt I came from. I was once part of the criminal life, the son of a drug dealer: an abuser, a monster, a self-pitying creep.
When I reach the bridge, I stop beneath a busted streetlamp. Another one flickers a few yards away, causing a puddle to flash brightly, then vanish on repeat. I breathe slowly. My cardio is good as usual, but Mary is stealing parts of me. No, I’m giving them to her.
My cell phone rings, breaking my thoughts. Who’s calling me this late? I take it out and check the screen. It’s just what I need—Dad. I usually ignore him. For years, at this point. The only reason I haven’t blocked his number is because he threatened to hurt himself. I shouldn’t care. I don’t. I just don’t need that hassle.
“What?” I snap, answering the phone.
“Rust?”
“You called my fucking phone, didn’t you? What do you want?”
“I…” Jesus, he’s doing the shudder voice thing, like this is such a big moment for him, and I should be impressed. “It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Are you on crack?” I growl, no idea where this is coming from, a fountain of rage and fire surging through me. “It’s good to hear my voice? Are you deranged, old man? The old Ambrose would’ve laughed at the way you’re acting.”
“I’m not that man anymore.”
“That doesn’t help Mom.” I’ve got my fist clenched, ready to hit something, someone. “If you were here, I’d cave your goddamn teeth in.”
“Rust…” He sounds oh-so shocked that I’d dare to get angry at him, the asshole.
“Remember the last time I hit you, Dad? I was sixteen—the last and the first. You fell like a lump of shit, and then Mom started screaming at me, calling me a bully. You were both fucked up.”
“Rust—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I roar. “I don’t need to hear about your twelve steps and finding the goddamn Lord and repenting or any of that crap. You abused my mom. You drove her to an early grave. You pimped her the fuck out.”