Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
The scent of bacon and coffee pulls me upright. I pad barefoot into the kitchen, my hair damp from sleep, the oversized shirt swallowing me whole. He’s at the stove, broad back to me, tattoos shifting with every movement of his shoulders. The Hellions insignia covers his back with smoke surrounding it that looks like it comes from a dragon’s mouth peaking up from his right hip. A dragon I have learned in watching him covers his left side and works low across his stomach wrapping up to his head breathing fire and smoke to the Hellions insignia. It’s a beautiful work of art. All of his tattoos are, but I haven’t had the courage to tell him or ask to see the details more closely.
He doesn’t look delicate in this space — he looks like he owns it, even though the kitchen is small and plain and ordinary. The house isn’t large or ornate, it’s very basic. But in this space I feel more like myself than I have since leaving home to go to college.
His head tilts when he hears me. “Mornin’.”
I rub my eyes. “Morning.”
“Sit.” His voice is blunt but not unkind. I’m beginning to learn this is him. He’s not sharp toned, but he is very direct. He points at the table where two plates wait. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. Not some pretty presentation on platters like the chef would do for Brian, but food without all the pompous circumstance actually makes me excited to eat even the simplest of things.
I slide into the chair. My stomach twists — hunger and dread mixed together. He sets the pan down after spooning the last of the eggs onto the big plate between us on the table, wipes his hands on a towel, and sits across from me.
“Eat,” he orders.
I pick up my fork, nibble at the eggs, but the lump in my throat makes everything taste like cardboard. He studies me, but doesn’t touch his own food
“Why the sad face?” he asks finally scooping a bite of eggs for himself, still watching me with sharp gray eyes.
The words hit harder than I expect. I stare down at the plate, fork trembling in my hand. “Because I don’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
“My life.” It spills out before I can stop it. My voice cracks on the word. As comfortable as I am here, how do I find my place in basic? I know it sounds snobby and I don’t want to be this entitled bitch, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, waiting. He’s not the type to fill silence with reassurances. If I want to say it, I have to say it, that is something I have noticed with Kellum. He wants people to lay it out without filler words or unnecessary chatter.
I set the fork down, push the plate away. “I don’t… I don’t have anyone, Kellum. My family doesn’t,” I pause wondering how much to share. “um, live here. I moved for Brian. I thought—” My throat closes. I force air through it.
“Your parents are dead, Kristen. What family do you have?” His words are soft, but a blunt blow nonetheless.
“I met Brian in college. He came to do a presentation in one of the business classes and offered internships. I took one. Soon, my world was consumed in his. Then my parents died. Car accident. It was sudden. They didn’t have siblings and their parents were dead. There isn’t anyone else. And in time, all the traveling with Brian, I lost touch with the few friends I had. His life became mine. I stayed here because he hasn’t wanted me to travel with me in recent months and this was his home base to unwind. He was supposed to be my person. He was my future. And now he won’t even take my calls. He’s cut me out completely.”
Kellum doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t offer soft words or pity. He just studies me, expression carved from stone. Finally, he states, “Okay, you’re lost.”
“Yes.” My hands shake so I put them in my lap. “I don’t know how to put the pieces back together. I don’t even know where to start.”
He drums his fingers once on the table, then stills them. “You just do the next thing.”
I blink. “The… what?”
“The next thing.” He leans forward, voice low, steady. “You take shit as it comes. You don’t sit here thinkin’ about the whole damn puzzle. You find the next piece and you put it down. Then you find the next one after that. And before you know it, you got a picture again.”
Tears burn the back of my eyes, but I bite them back. No one’s ever said it like that before — simple, stripped down, no sympathy to soften it. Just truth. Do what you have to do.