Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 61868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
"I warned him off," Jack says, reading my mind.
"And he listened?"
"The man has a screw loose and lacks the brain cells that he needs to function like a normal person. Who the fuck knows?"
Finn glances over at Ethan, then at me. His eyes are sympathetic in a way that claws at me. "He's wrong, you know."
I stalk away before I get dragged into another conversation that won't do anything to change my mind about what happened. Ethan is and always will be a thorn in my side and a reminder of my weakness.
It's my cross to bear, and I don't need anyone trying to make it easier.
6
JACK
HARD LESSONS
I ache like hell from a hard day’s graft in the yard. My stomach is growling like a hungry wolf, and my temper is frayed. This thing between Ethan and West is getting out of hand. Targets need to be met, and it only takes one link in the chain for it to go to shit. Ron Maggs is the financial clout behind this yard, and he tasked me with the man management a few years back. I don’t have the patience for Ethan’s bullshit. My jaw clenches at thoughts of Ron’s sweaty face, smug expression, and huge belly. I’ll need a pay raise if I’m expected to manage staff tantrums, too. I’m not a fucking therapist.
And Skye and Finn hanging out like high school sweethearts is another itch to scratch.
I’m not the type to run off my tension but I need to do something.
I watch the crew as they gradually leave the site, making their way to their trucks and back to whatever keeps them in place. Most of the time, that’s Reggie’s bar. I pack away everything valuable and lock up the yard in my own brooding company. When I’m done, I make my way home.
Home.
Seems a funny word for a cabin in a forest shared with two other men, but it is what it is. West is convinced Skye is going to make our place more homely, but I’m not so sure. Where it used to be somewhere for me to relax, now I feel on edge, and she plays Finn like a fucking banjo. I know that much.
I want to know more about why she’s with us. I don’t trust her as far as I can throw her.
Approaching the cabin, I catch a waft of flame-grilled meat in the air. My stomach growls again as I imagine a nice T-Bone, rare, smothered in butter and washed down with something home-brewed.
Nice idea. Must be my mind playing tricks on me.
Grabbing West’s tomahawk from the porch, I go around the back of the cabin. The ax is just the right weight, swings like a motherfucker, and makes me feel like the king of the world. Despite my uncomfortable shoulder, I smash the thick logs into splinters, driven by the relentless rage that bubbles inside me every waking moment. It’s only suppressed when I’m busy or forced to shove it down so that I can interact like a normal human being.
I should focus on making something again, instead of destroying. The table in the kitchen has served our cabin for many years and took all the best parts of me to make. The craftsmanship is something I should let myself be proud of. But pride is a waste of time. It’s a notion for hopeful fools.
The rocking chair in Skye’s room is another one of my projects. Was it too kind a gesture to leave it for her? My grandmother used to sit in her rocking chair and knit. She always seemed peaceful when she did.
Are we making her feel too comfortable here?
Damn Finn, talking me around with his thoughtful suggestions before Skye arrived. Women need small gestures and tokens to make them feel appreciated. I grimace at the thought. I don’t give a crap what women need.
There hasn’t been a single woman in my life who’s given a crap about me.
My frenzy momentarily intensifies as the discomfort in my chafed palms, worsens with every swing.
Sweat drips from my brow and falls into the dust and dirt, and Finn comes into view. He’s a lumbering bull of a man. A giant with the heart of a marshmallow and eyes pretty enough to make a damsel in distress out of even the hardest woman.
“Dinner’s ready. You gonna join us? Think you should!” Finn looks hopeful.
I’m a sweaty mess but as ravenous as a bear right out of hibernation. And probably as pissed off.
When I follow him around to the front door and step inside the cabin, I’m struck by the sound of laughter. Are they telling jokes? My stomach lurches, and my pulse quickens. Skye wears an unbuttoned shirt, which looks like one of Finn’s, and some loose pants, which reveal a flash of her milk-white stomach as they hang around her hip bones like an invitation. Her eyes follow me across the room, and the corners of her mouth tip up hopefully. I don’t reciprocate the gesture, but I do imagine sliding my hands up her pale, exposed thighs after I’ve ripped off those pants with one sharp tug. My cock stirs and stiffens. Pulsing heat from the fire hits me hard, and I loosen my sweat-soaked shirt.