Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
It’s enough, and I escape unscathed, hurrying upstairs to my room. After getting cleaned up, and using the warm spray of the shower to relieve the churning in my balls that I’ve felt since last night . . . I actually feel more or less human. Still, I haven’t blown my load that fast since about three weeks after I discovered what jacking off meant.
I go back downstairs quietly, praying I’m not called to court again with the Mom Squad. Taking the long way around, I head out the front door and jump back in my truck, going slowly down the driveway when a yellow blur beside me catches my eye. I take my foot off the gas as the blur starts barking . . . loudly.
I brake and open the door. “Mr. Puddles . . . ssshhh!” He freezes, his tail wagging in the air and his chin near the ground, ready to play. “Fine, come on, boy.” He yips once more and bolts for the truck. I sit back to give him space and he hops inside, climbing over my lap to the passenger seat like he always rides shotgun.
Then again, maybe he does.
I tell Mr. Puddles, “I don’t know where we’re going. I just needed to get out of there so I can think. That good with you?”
Mr. Puddles barks in answer, and I assume agreement. It’s not quite “What’s that, Lassie? Timmy fell down the well?” but I get the message.
“Good, let’s go.”
I drive into town, no real destination in mind. But I need to get my mind clear. As the blacktop rolls under my tires, everything that’s happened since I got home runs through my mind . . . Winston and Avery, Mom and Dad, Hazel . . . Hazel . . . Hazel.
I get all the way downtown, and as I pass by City Hall, I see protesters with signs again: NO REZONE. SAVE OUR TOWN. FUCK FORD. And a few others.
I read them all, and it feels more real than it did when I first arrived. These people are yelling and marching around to protect not only land, but like Etta said, their way of life in Cold Springs.
Just beyond the protesters I see a billboard, Uncle Jed’s cowboy-hat-topped, too-white smiling face . . . and a freshly spray-painted dick going into his mouth. Enough is enough. I need to see this potential subdivision for myself.
Hanging a left, I drive out of town, toward the land where Jed wants to build. As I do, I watch as the houses change, from the authentic historical brick builds of old-old Cold Springs, to the wood-frame and vinyl-sided homes that were built in the generation before I was born, to the prebuilt cookie cutters . . . and then manufactured homes with the occasional sprinkle of a beat-up wooden structure.
But despite the diminishing fanciness of the buildings, I see the pride and effort that people out here have. I see the effort that’s been put into the farmland, the way every row has been harvested or planted carefully. I see the pastures with horses, donkeys, and cattle. The fences might not be perfectly strung with nice, fresh barbed wire—in fact, quite a few of the sections look worse for wear—but each section is mended with something, even if it’s nothing more than what appears to be slender pines that have been dragged from the woods.
Still, for all the hard work and effort, I see the signs proving life has been harder than it should be for the residents. I see the rusted gates, so old that I doubt anyone knows where the key to the lock is, if it’d even open. I see the trash casually dumped in the drainage ditch that runs alongside the two-lane road, escapees from the backs of pickup trucks or tossed from windows on the way to the county dump.
But just because it’s not pristine McMansions doesn’t make it any less valuable. It doesn’t give others the right to come in and basically steal it out from underneath the rightful landowners. I see how they want to live their lives, and how hard they’re trying to hang on to the little they’ve got.
Jed would destroy them without a second thought. That much I know for certain. I decide to take a play from Wren’s rule book, and with a smirk of evil delight, I drive back into downtown.
“Come on, Mr. Puddles,” I tell the grinning goldendoodle as I pull into a parking spot outside a coffee shop near the protesters. “Let’s get you a pup cup.”
He barks and follows me out of the truck, trotting along at my side. He’s well trained, waiting patiently outside the door as I go into a coffee shop to get supplies, including Mr. Puddles’s small cup of whipped cream. But once he sees the fluffy goodness, he’s impatient, so I stop and let him lick the cup clean, and once he’s happy, I take the trays of coffees from the barista.