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)
I chuckle to myself at the thought of Donovan’s girl lying down next to me in the street, thinking she was some kind of white knight sent to save me. She clearly has a savior complex . . . rescuing strangers, salvaging an old, ruined house, probably thinking she was saving my brother from a lifetime of loneliness.
There’s an edge beneath all that softness, though, like biting into something sweet only to get an unexpected spicy aftertaste.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about her—specifically what she saw in my brother. She seems like a bit of a ballbuster, and he tended to go for the softhearted pushovers. Then again, I hadn’t spoken to him in years, so what do I know?
As soon as I graduated high school, I sold my car and bought a one-way ticket to London. From there, I couch surfed and free roamed and train hopped and soaked in every sight, sound, and experience I could, never staying in one place long enough to grow attached to anything or anyone. I always knew once that unsettled restlessness started gnawing away at my bones from the inside that it was time to move on.
Over the years, I learned where to find odd jobs that would pay under the table. They were mostly manual labor in the construction realm—bricklaying, plaster patching, carpentry, tile installation, and plumbing repairs. At this point, I could probably build an entire house on my own if I needed to. But a house is nothing more than a vault for memories good and bad, and I’ve got no use for one of those.
“Judith, for the love of God, I told you, I’m on my way,” the man outside my door screams into his phone again. I peer through the curtains and watch him light up another smoke. He’s shirtless and shoeless, his hair’s a mess, and his belt buckle is undone. He’s not going anywhere anytime soon.
Sometimes I wonder if people live for drama because they’ve got nothing better to live for.
Maybe their lives are otherwise dull and it keeps things interesting.
The smoker outside stubs his cigarette against the handrail before heading back to his room, slamming the door so hard it rattles the mass-produced oil painting hanging over my bed.
After Anneliese left the bar last night, I stayed and nursed a beer, replaying our entire exchange in my head. I’ve met hundreds if not thousands of people over the years, and I don’t know that a single one of them would’ve lain in the street next to me.
Reaching for my phone, I pull up an old social media account, log in, and prepare to run a search on her name before realizing I haven’t got a clue what her last name is. I type in Anneliese + Arcadia Grove Vermont on the off chance something pops up . . . but I get nothing.
Pulling up a search engine, I enter the same phrase.
No dice.
I lean back against the headboard and let my phone fall on the pillow beside me. Slipping my hands behind my head, I close my eyes and picture her dirty-blonde waves and those icy-blue eyes the color of the Atlantic. Those full raspberry lips and that pointed chin were nothing more than the cherry on the sundae. And that peach-shaped ass.
My God.
I could eat my fist just thinking about the way it swung side to side as she walked away last night.
There’s no denying she’s a work of art.
I can’t begin to imagine what she saw in my brother of all human beings on this earth.
Maybe if I stick around long enough, I’ll find out.
I peel myself off the bed, iron yesterday’s clothes, and finish getting ready. My appointment with Swank isn’t until three o’clock, so I’ve got some time to kill. Locking up my room, I head to the parking lot and breathe a sigh of relief when my truck appears to have made it through the night unscathed.
Only my relief is short lived . . . because the damn thing won’t start.
“It’s probably your catalytic converter,” a disembodied voice says after I pop the hood and climb out. I turn to find the smoker from earlier leaning against the dusty white Chrysler 300 next to me.
“I haven’t even looked at the engine yet. How would you know that?” I ask.
“Saw some kids come through here last night, getting under cars and running off with parts.” He lights a cigarette, pinching the butt between his thumb and forefinger before blowing a plume of wispy smoke out of the side of his thin lips. “They like to take ’em for scrap metal. They get about fifty bucks.”
Hunched over my front end, I drag in a jagged breath and recall what Lynnette said when I first told her I was staying here.