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)
Lachlan grabs the knob and props the door open with his foot. “After you.”
The thick, stuffy atmosphere of the place greets me like a warm hug, chipping away some of the chill in my bones.
He goes his way.
I go mine.
The bartender gives me a wave when he spots me, placing my purse next to my drink. He must have tucked it under the bar when I dashed out of here earlier.
“Thank you,” I say, taking a seat and trying my hardest not to worry about where Lachlan’s going. From the corner of my eye, I watch him disappear into the men’s room.
“So what was his deal?” he asks. “The guy in the street?”
I blow a burst of air between my lips and laugh before reaching for my watered-down cocktail. “Wish I could tell you.”
“I was about to call the police when I saw him get up,” he says. “You think he’s okay?”
No. I think he’s insane.
“For now,” I say.
“Let me make you a fresh one of those.” He points to my drink. “Top shelf this time. On the house. It’s the least I can do since you saved a man from becoming roadkill tonight.”
“Not necessary.” I slide the barely touched drink forward. “I’m actually going to head home. I think I’ve had enough fun for one evening . . .”
I’m gathering my things when Lachlan appears out of nowhere and takes the stool next to me.
“Two shots. Vodka,” he says, patting the counter. He turns to me. “Sit down, Anneliese. Let’s have a drink. We’re practically family, are we not?”
“I’ll pass.” I slide my purse under my arm.
Disappointment colors his chiseled features, and he places his hand on my wrist. “Seriously? We narrowly escaped death together, and now you want to bolt like we didn’t just share a life-altering experience?”
“Correct.”
The bartender places two shots on the counter and eyes Lachlan, who slides one of them closer to me. Something tells me he’s used to getting anything his heart desires.
It must be a Byrne thing.
“You want to know why my brother never told you about me?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say without pause, eyes growing wide in the dark as I gift him my full attention.
“Take this, and I’ll tell you.” He hands me the shot glass. “Bottoms up.”
I toss it back, letting the cheap vodka burn my throat on the way down. It takes everything I have not to retch when I’m done. My eyes water, and my stomach curdles.
Lachlan laughs. He’s yet to touch his shooter.
“You going to tell me or what?” I ask.
“The reason why my brother never told you about me . . .” He draws out his words, taking his time. My heartbeat pulses in my ears as I cling to every syllable. “. . . is because he was an asshole.”
In less than a second, my desperate curiosity fades, and all I see is red.
I’d toss my old drink in his face, but I think he’d enjoy that too much. That and I’ve never been one for theatrics.
Without another word, I walk away knowing one thing and one thing only: all Byrnes are assholes.
If he wants the house, he’s going to have to pry it from my cold, dead fingers, and I’ll spend every last ounce of energy I have making sure of that.
SIX
LACHLAN
orphic (adj.) mysterious and entrancing; beyond ordinary understanding
“Shut up! Just shut up!” the man taking his morning smoke on the balcony outside my motel room Wednesday shouts into his phone. “No . . . you’re not listening to me, Judith. I said I’d be there when I get there . . . if you don’t quit fussin’, I’m not coming at all . . . oh yeah? Is that what you’re gonna do? With what? Huh? With what?”
I perch on the foot of my bed, a thin white towel secured around my waist and hair still damp from my morning shower. Grabbing the nearby remote, I crank the TV to top volume, but it does nothing to drown out the stomping going on above me. Last I gleaned, it was a family of six crammed into that room. When they’re not stomping and parkouring off furniture, they’re watching an endless loop of Nickelodeon cartoons on full blast.
A police siren wails in the distance, and I think of my truck with its busted window.
I’ve stayed in hostels ten times worse than this over the years, but at least their beds were softer than these sorry excuses for mattresses.
I don’t know how much longer I can put up with the Pine Grove Motel, but the only other option in town is a three-star chain that costs quadruple what I’m paying per night.
I washed yesterday’s clothes in the sink when I got home last night and left them in the bathroom to dry. Surprisingly, they didn’t have a single speck of dirt after the whole lying-in-the-street incident. In an hour or two, they should be ready to be ironed, and I’ll be strutting into the Swank, Grove, and Ledbetter law firm to get the ball rolling on my brother’s estate.