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)
“It’s ten at night.”
“You’re still burning time.”
She folds her arms. “You ever think about what your mother would say?”
I go still. The Zippo’s weight is a stone in my palm, cool and hard with the teeth marks I put in it during a long night once. She doesn’t know where the landmines are. She just stepped on one.
“She’d say,” I answer slowly, “that if a woman can’t take a hint, she should learn to take the door.” I flip the Zippo shut. The click is crisp. “Take the door. And don’t look back.”
Her throat bobs. She looks at the open frame, then back at me like she wants to drag it out, pick at it, build a house from splinters. She just can’t let it go. Not happening. We’re not building something together. In fact, I’ve got a talent for demolition.
She tries one more angle. “You wear that patch. Means brotherhood. Means loyalty. Don’t you want that with someone else? A person who’s not,” she gestures to the room again, “this? A quick fuck and gone.”
“You don’t know what the patch means,” I remark sternly. “You know what it looks like. That’s different.”
“Explain it.”
I smirk, bitch is just not getting it. “No.”
Her bravado cracks. The mask slides and underneath is a girl who wanted to be seen and wasn’t. I don’t like the way that feels pressing against my ribs so I crush it fast.
“Look,” I explain, voice honed to a clean edge, “you had your fun. You want sweet words, go find a man who buys candles and calls you baby and pretends he means it. I don’t pretend. I don’t say anything I don’t mean. I don’t want your number. I don’t want your coffee. I don’t want your name. I don’t want you sitting on my bed like we’re about to talk about our favorite colors.”
She swallows. “Mine’s green.”
“I didn’t ask.”
Her cheeks heat. “You’re an asshole.”
“Getting repetitive,” I remind mildly. “Door’s still open.”
Silence stretches. I move outside the door to help her get a clue. The air is crisp tonight, not chilly but not too hot. Out beyond the walls, eastern North Carolina hums steady—pines whisper in the dark. The life I know. The only kind I trust.
“I thought maybe…” She breaks, shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter what I thought.”
“It doesn’t.”
She lifts her chin one last time like she’s going to claw back into control with pride alone. “You’re gonna die alone.”
“Everyone does,” I state, bored again. “Ain’t no one else fitting in the casket beside ya. Some of us just tell the truth about it sooner.”
She flinches like I slapped her, then reaches me, she’s now standing in the door frame. Pauses. Looks back to the bedroom door we just left. “You won’t even remember me tomorrow, will you?”
I blow smoke toward the sky. “Tomorrow’s a long way off.”
Her eyes shine, quick, and then harden. She steps into night air. She rolls her shoulders back, head held high and makes her walk of shame back through the compound to her car. I watch long enough to make sure she actually leaves. She does. Good. She’s not safe here. This place isn’t for the weak.
I step back into the duplex and shut the door. The room snaps quiet again, just the muffled beat and my own breath. I stub the cigarette in the bottle cap I pulled from my pocket, grind it to nothing, then palm the little metal circle and toss it into the trash. There’s a mirror nailed crooked above the dresser. I catch a look at myself and almost don’t recognize the version the world thinks is me—the one with a mouth that doesn’t know how to curve without baring teeth. The one who stares hard enough to make most people look away.
I pocket the Zippo and head back outside and then into the chaos. The club breathes life around me. Tripp’s by the pool table, cue in one hand, a shot in the other. Boomer’s arguing with the bartender about the price of bourbon like it’s a personal insult. Everyone is in their element.
Crunch clocks me and smirks. “That was quick.”
“It was enough.”
He looks around for her. “She cryin’?”
“Not my business,” I retort. I’m lying. It was my business, in the sense that I made it happen. But I don’t borrow trouble. If she’s crying I can’t fix it.
“Man’s a glacier,” Red calls, grin sharp. “Cold and slow.”
“Slow?” I arch a brow at my oldest brother.
Red barks a laugh. “Okay, not slow. Just quick to bust his load.”
I take his shot, toss it back, set the glass down. Burn slides warm. “You finish that rack, you’re gonna cry, too. I’m about to clean you out.”
“Big talk,” Red singsongs.
“Big facts.” I chalk a cue, roll my neck, feel a nice pop. The noise here is better than quiet. I step into the game and let the geometry take over—angles, force, the physics of collision. White smacks color, pockets answer with thuds as they take their claim on the balls.