Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 84928 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84928 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
"Breaker once told me that people in our lifestyle," Alex started, putting her laptop on the coffee table and walking over to take a chair beside me, "when there is a death, that we fight or fuck and move on."
I gave her a smile. "Well, I got the fucking thing done right after the call, but I could use a good fight. Put um up," I winked, tapping a closed fist into her jaw playfully.
"Careful," Breaker warned, leaning back and looking at his woman. "She might be small, but she packs a mean punch."
"Breaker man," I smirked, leaning my arms on the table toward him. "Are you a... battered man?" I whispered dramatically. "You can tell me. I won't judge... except to call you a giant pussy."
Alex giggled and Breaker rolled his eyes. "Be fuckin' serious for a second, Shoot."
"Serious? Me? No one would ever accuse me of that."
"Maybe we should go with," Alex suggested, reaching over to cover my inked had with her flawless, delicate one.
"'Less this is something you need to do alone," Breaker said pointedly at Alex who lowered her eyes at him.
"It's cute that you're both so concerned," I said, grinning when Breaker sighed at my choice of words, "but I am literally flying in, pointing at a casket, and getting the fuck back outta that backwoods town."
"Right, but if you need us..." Alex trailed off.
I offered her a smile, wrapping my pinkie around hers and bringing it up to my mouth to kiss. "I know I can count on you, pumpkin."
"So when you leavin'?" Breaker asked, reaching over and grabbing Alex's chair and hauling it toward his, wrapping an arm around the back.
"Got a flight out at seven. Hoping to be able to get a flight back late tomorrow night or maybe the next morning at the latest. What?" I asked, watching Alex give me an odd smile.
"Nothing."
"Liar," I shot back. I knew she knew about my past. Pillow talk and all that. She'd heard some of the stories; the ones I was willing to tell Break. She knew that my acting like it was nothing was a mask. She also knew me well enough to know that it was one I wasn't willing to take off, so she kept her opinions to herself.
I stayed for a couple hours, drinking beer, joking around, trying to ease their minds, hoping that, in turn, it eased mine. Because no matter how well I play acted at stability, the reality was there just under the surface. I had spent fifteen god-awful years in a town where people knew I was getting my ass beat, knew I wasn't being fed properly, knew my dad was an abusive alcoholic, and no one stepped in. No, in turn, I got to deal with the brunt of the gossip and rumors. Teacher's eyes didn't linger over the bruises on my arms or face. Guidance counselors didn't call me in and ask me why I was so skinny. Everyone just jaw-jabbed about old pathetic Ben Allen and how he threw his life away; how it was good that my mama met her grave early so she didn't have to be strapped to the likes of him. And I got the sad eyes when I was a boy and the disdain when I got older as they watched and waited for the apple to land right next to the fucking tree.
I wanted to go back to the town about as much as I wanted acid poured on my face. And, given that I really enjoyed the benefits a pretty face got me (namely with the ladies), that was saying something.
See the thing is? People in small towns have long memories. It wouldn't matter to them that I had gotten away; that I had an apartment that cost more than all the trailers in the old park put together; that I drove a car worth five years of their salary; that I was a grown ass man with a life of his own. To them, I would always be little Johnnie. I would always be a poor, abused boy. I would always be the rebellious, black-wearing, metal-music-listening, fight-causing scrappy teen.
But regardless of all my feelings about heading back, that was what I was doing. So I left Breaker and Alex's sometime around midnight and headed home. I packed a bag while I drank some Jack which was either funny and ironic or pathetic. I wondered how many rounds dear old dad was in before his body finally gave up. I wondered if it was the scotch I sent him that finally did him in. That would be a beautiful kind of karma.
See... I had moved on. I built myself a life. I got myself some people who would kill or die for me. I had fun. I got as far away from all that shit I was raised in as possible. But you never really get free of your past and starting the day I turned twenty-one, every month, I had a case of scotch sent to my father. I knew he wouldn't want fuck-all to do with anything from me, but I also knew he could never refuse the booze. So maybe I helped kill the bastard.
--
Seven hours later, I was boarding the plane, a knot the size of a fist twisting in my stomach.
"Heya darlin'," I said, grabbing the wrist of the flight attendant as she walked slowly past me. Her body tightened, no doubt used to way too many scumbags trying to put their hands on her, before she rounded her shoulders and turned to me with a hospitality smile plastered on her face. Her eyes landed on me and the smile stretched slightly, her head cocked to the side, her shoulders relaxed.
"Can I help you with something?" she asked in a way that suggested that if what I needed included the removal of my pants, she would be all for it.
"Nope," I said, rubbing my hand over the veins in her wrist, "just wanted to look at you for a minute," I winked and her cheeks flushed.