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)
He’s silent, though his eyes are glinting as he holds back his words.
“I’m only going to ask you to leave once,” I say, nodding toward his parked truck.
Lifting his palms in surrender, he meets me with a wordless, unreadable expression.
With that, I return inside, shut the door behind me, and secure the dead bolt while I’m at it. Resting my back against the wall, I wait until I hear the heavy tromp of his boots down the front steps, the creak of his truck door, and the rumble of his engine.
Just like that, he’s gone.
But something tells me I haven’t seen the last of him.
FOUR
LACHLAN
brontide (n.) the low rumble of distant thunder
The hotel room is pitch black when my alarm goes off Tuesday morning. I toss the scratchy cover off and head to the window, convinced it can’t possibly be 7:00 a.m. and still look like night. I’m greeted with a rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning. Pockets of standing water puddle the parking lot. The rain pours so hard I can barely make out my truck in its spot a few doors down.
Peeling out of my boxers, I hit the shower, cranking the ice-cold water to hot and giving it some time to get there.
My lower back is on fire—thanks to that saggy excuse for a mattress.
I’m supposed to meet with a local estate lawyer at eight thirty. It sounds like this whole thing could get expensive if Donovan’s fiancée puts up a fight. I don’t know her well enough to tell if she was bluffing Sunday when she said she was going to contest it, but I know my brother enough to know that his preferred type always tended to be naive. I doubt she has any idea what she’s in for. If I know my brother, and I do, he probably sold her the sun, the moon, and the stars, plus some swampland in Florida.
The showerhead spits for ten minutes before barely getting lukewarm. I wash up with a thin white bar of motel soap and watered-down shampoo that barely lathers. When I’m finished, I wrap a thin towel around my hips and attempt to make a pot of coffee. The machine whirs and whizzes, but nothing comes out.
For crying out loud.
I finish drying off and change into clean clothes. By the time I leave, I’m uncharacteristically presentable, dashing through the downpour to reach my truck without getting soaked—and while I’m impressed with my timeliness and ability to assemble myself like a working-class stiff, I’m less than captivated by the shattered driver’s side window waiting to greet me.
Glass crunches under my shoes as I get closer.
“Son of a bitch.” I unlock the door and inspect the inside. I know better than to keep anything valuable in here, but it looks like the so-called hooligans ransacked my glove box and the storage behind my bench seat. As far as I can tell, nothing of value was taken.
With every passing second, rain soaks through my clothes, making the fabric cling to my skin like a suffocating hug.
Carefully, I pluck shards of glass from my damp seat before climbing inside to get out of the torrent.
Taking a deep breath, I massage my temples and get my shit together.
I can’t walk into the attorney’s office looking like a drowned rat who pissed his pants.
Heading to the local Walmart, I buy clear plastic, duct tape, a pair of khakis, a white button-down, an umbrella, and a towel for my seat. I rip the tags off, change in the bathroom, and head back out.
I’m two blocks from the law firm when my phone rings. The clock on the dash reads 8:45 a.m., though I didn’t need to check the time to know I’m late.
“Mr. Byrne,” a woman’s voice says once I answer.
“I’m on my way—it’s just . . . it’s been a morning.”
“Well, that’s what I was calling about,” she says. “You were scheduled for eight thirty, but Mr. Swank has been asked to fill in for another partner at the last minute at nine. He was wondering if you’d mind rescheduling so he has more time with you?”
I pull into a parking spot outside the building and pinch the bridge of my nose.
This is the cherry on top of today’s shit sundae.
“Yeah,” I exhale. “That’s fine.”
“We could do tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock, or we’ll be looking into next week,” she says. “Monday or Tuesday.”
“Tomorrow at three is good.” I end the call, pulling away and heading to the nearest coffee shop. I grab two black dark roasts—one for me and one for Lynnette—and then I head to her part of town so I can let her gloat about being right about that motel.
As much as I hate to admit it, Lynnette’s never been wrong about much of anything.
She always had a saying about storms—that they were lucky and always had a way of washing away any stagnancy in a person’s life. She’d even go so far as to lie in the driveway like a crazy person and let the rain soak her to the bone. Then she’d come in shivering, grinning, her mood completely uplifted. It never failed: within a day or two, she’d announce she’d gotten some promotion or her car had stopped making some weird noise or some lame ass she was dating had finally moved on. Once, she won three thousand bucks on a scratch-off ticket—some of which she used to take Bryce and me to Six Flags for an entire weekend, VIP passes and all. It was my first, last, and only time at an amusement park, and while I thought I was having the time of my life, my excitement paled in comparison to the joy on Lynnette’s face as she watched us run from ride to ride and shove our faces with concession-stand junk food.