Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Qualify your apologies?” he asks.
I frown. “I was explaining. I wasn’t qualifying.”
“Same difference.”
The headlights of another oncoming car turn onto the road. “Okay, for real. You have to get up. This isn’t funny.”
The car coasts closer, and I wave it around, only this time it crawls to a stop. The driver, an older gentleman with tortoiseshell glasses, rolls down his window.
“You need help, ma’am?” he asks. His wipers swish, throwing splatters of rain in our direction.
“Nope, we’re good.” Lachlan motions for him to leave, but the driver looks at me for reassurance.
Crouching down, I tell Lachlan, “If you don’t get up, I’m going to ask this man to help me peel you off the damn concrete. Is that what you want?”
“Of course that’s not what I want.”
“Then get up,” I say through a clenched jaw.
Before he has a chance to respond, the driver speeds off—as if he wants nothing to do with our quarrel. Can’t say that I blame him. As of now, it appears to be a hopeless cause.
“All right, then,” I say. “You leave me no choice.”
I slump next to him, lying on the cold, wet cement like a fellow crazy person.
It’s a desperate move, but it’s all I’ve got.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he asks.
Little shudders run through me, and all I can think about are things like hot chocolates and warm blankets and fireplaces.
“If I catch a cold, it’s your fault,” I say.
“That’s a myth . . . that being cold is how you catch a cold. Colds are viral.”
“That’s great that you know that. Would be a shame for all of that knowledge to go to waste when you get flattened by a set of Michelins.”
“That would be a shame, but only because I prefer Firestones,” the smart-ass quips. “What do you think it would feel like? Getting run over?”
The rain softens, dying off by the second.
“Not sure,” I say. “And not sure I want to find out.”
“Do you think it’d be quick and painless, or do you think you’d be flopping around like roadkill, waiting to be put out of your misery?”
“Guess we’ll find out soon enough.” I slip my hands behind my head, same as him, though my heart is hammering so hard it’s about to rupture my chest.
“You don’t want to go out like this, do you?” he asks. “Next to me?”
“I don’t want to go out at all.”
“Then maybe you should get up?”
My teeth chatter. “I will when you do.”
The soft drone of tires on wet pavement steals my attention. I pop my head up and see a car speeding by on the opposite side of the road . . . a little too close for comfort.
“So how much longer are we going to do this?” I ask.
The rain stops without warning, and nothing but the scent of damp earth lingers in the night air.
Lachlan sits up with a grunt, pushing himself to stand, and then offers me his hand.
“Oh,” I say. “So we’re done now? Just like that?”
I place mine in his, and he pulls me up with a steady grip, as if everything that just transpired were the most natural thing in the world.
He lets me go once I’m upright, and I steal a glimpse of the white shirt plastered to his muscled torso before finishing off with the drenched khakis molded to his lower half. It’s a complete one-eighty from the ripped-jeans-and-T-shirt uniform he sported the last two times.
“You good?” he asks, heading for the sidewalk. I nod, watching his confident strut. The man walks exactly the way his brother used to. “You should probably get out of the street. Don’t need you getting hit by a car after all of that.”
He’s certifiable.
That’s got to be why Donovan wrote him off.
“Where are you going now?” I trot after him, but only because I’m curious.
He points to the bar. “Was going to grab a drink if that’s all right with you?”
“I’m headed that way actually. My stuff is in there.” I straighten my shoulders and glance at the door. I don’t want him to think I’m following him.
“Ah, I see. So you saw me lying in the street and came to save me,” he says. “How valiant.”
“I was just doing what any decent person would do.” Donovan was always bragging about his good deeds. He once came across an elderly woman in a grocery store parking lot who had taken a fall and spilled all her groceries. He wasted no time helping her up, rebagging her food, and driving her home. Once there, he placed her in a comfortable chair, gave her some ice for her knee, and put all her things away in the kitchen.
Good Samaritan was practically his middle name.
Of course, I never verified any of that.
I took his word as gospel.
For all I know, the sweet little old lady was nothing but a figment of his imagination—yet another story to feed me so I wouldn’t question that he was anything but a saint.