Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“Damn …” he says, looking me up and down approvingly. My shirt is ripped open, and I don’t know where the tie is.
“You stayed the night,” I hear Dallas say. “Must’ve …”
But they all stop, their smiles fading as they look at my eyes. I turn away and start for the stairs.
I’m sweating. My clothes stick to my skin. The ceiling feels too low.
“What happened?” Army moves toward me.
“Nothing.” I climb the steps, afraid to look back at him. My hand shakes. I grab the railing to steady it.
“Why don’t you guys go—”
“I’m just gonna take a shower,” I choke out, my pulse racing in my ears. “I’ll follow.”
“Macon …”
“Go to work. All of you,” I call out, trying to lighten my voice.
“I’m close behind.”
I can’t breathe.
The door opens, and I turn, taking a long look at Trace’s face. He raises his eyebrows.
“Put some beer in the cooler.” I force a smile. “It’ll be a hot day. We deserve it, right?”
“Psh, yeah.” He smiles wide and races out the door, Dallas following, and I twist back around, heading for the top.
Army still stands there, watching me. I know he is.
“Macon …”
“I’m right behind you,” I say, not looking back. I reach the top and walk to my room. I step inside, close the door, and lock it.
I see my bedside table and barely feel myself walk toward it. But I don’t open the drawer.
Not yet.
I sit on the bed, letting the sunlight Krisjen always leaves spilling into my room cut into my brain. I wince at the glare in the corner of my eye, and the way it’s too hot on that side of my face. No clouds outside. I hate clear skies.
I rest my elbows on my thighs, draping my arms over my legs as I bow my head.
There’s dirt under one of my nails. I feel it like it’s a seed burrowed in there.
Sweat dampens my body. It’s so hot.
And every follicle of hair feels like it’s being pulled from underneath my skin.
Hair hangs in my eyes. Dirt on my shoes. I can feel it through the leather.
I’m sick of the dirt roads. The thought of seeing them again feels like a ten-ton weight on my shoulders.
All the same, all the time.
And food and people and the years and the talking. So much fucking talking. It’s all the same, every time. Every day.
Tomorrow won’t be any different. Neither will next week.
My eyes burn as I stare at the drawer. I vaguely feel my phone vibrate, but I cancel the call without looking and drop it on my bedstand.
Krisjen was right. She couldn’t keep me alive. I was always going to end up here. I thought if I had her, it would be more than this, because I wasn’t finding a reason to stay for them. For the Bay. I fail here. Every day is just more bullshit. I’m shit.
People don’t love me. They’re scared of me. They need me. My brothers might be attached to me, but only because I’ve always been here. Every moment of their lives I’ve been here, taking up space, on their case.
The phone buzzes again. I pick it up, ignoring the call.
I zone in on the wood grain handle of the drawer.
It could be over in one minute. Less, even. I could just stop.
I just want to stop.
The sun scorches my eyes, and I close them.
They’d get used to functioning without me. They may even feel guilty about the sigh of relief they’ll feel when I’m not around. But they’ll feel it.
I was never compassionate. Patient. Kind. I’m someone people put up with. Was I ever tender with her?
I was.
It was real.
She felt it, too.
She liked me.
She was always looking, even though I acted like I didn’t see.
I shake my head. No.
No.
She’s kind. She’s good at being kind.
It was fucking pity.
I’m so much less than what she could have and she knows it.
She’s just kind.
She won’t want …
I swallow hard … me in …
I growl, digging my fingernails into my hair … five years. “Krisjen …” I gasp.
I yank open the drawer, my heart pounding and my head splitting, but I hear a voice.
“Macon?”
I look at the phone on the table.
“Macon, are you there?”
Iron?
I pick up the phone, and it feels like fifty pounds as I lift it to my ear.
“Are you there?” he says again.
I can’t talk, but I’m breathing hard. I pull the phone away from my ear, seeing a number I don’t recognize.
“How are you …” I clear my throat. “How are you calling me?”
“A friend has a cell phone.”
I missed the sound of his voice.
“I thought if you saw the prison on your caller ID you wouldn’t answer.”
He’s right. I wouldn’t have answered. I hate that he knows that about me. “You need …”
But I stop, about to ask him if he needs money but deciding to shut my fucking mouth. He can have whatever he wants.