Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“Don’t you be telling me he don’t need none of that food. He needs it. Still scrawny as a rat’s tail, if you ask me.”
I stared down at the borderline obese dog. Not a damn thing about him was scrawny. He lived in a frat house where everyone fed him pizza and fried chicken. “He’s definitely looking on the…healthy side.”
“That’s right, ‘cause I make sure he gets some good food when he’s here.” She dropped another piece to the floor, and he scarfed it down so fast he choked. “That’s some good eatin’s, ain’t it, Mr. Dog?” She took the milk and hobbled to the living room, placing the glasses on the coffee table before she collapsed on her recliner with a groan. “Come on over here and sit down, Wolf.” She patted the worn arm of the brown-velour sofa, most likely circa 1974.
The cushion nearly swallowed me when I sank onto the couch.
“Now, I was a’reading something on that interweb thing. Seems there’s this place you can go to and find yourself a nice lady.” Both her drawn-on eyebrows lifted. “A good Christian lady.”
The woman was more concerned about me finding a girl and settling down than she was about saving my soul—which she was also worried about. Every Sunday, without fail, she tried to get me to go to church with her, and every Sunday, I politely declined. “Mrs. Seaton.” I took a bite of the gooey cookie. “You know I’m not looking for a girlfriend.” Mainly because the only real one I’d had all but ruined me.
Deep lines settled around her mouth when she gave a disapproving frown. “You better go on and get you one before you end up on those NFL channels.” She pointed at the blank TV. “Won’t be able to trust their intentions once you’re famous. They call ‘em gold diggers, you know. There’s even a song ‘bout it. Something ‘bout a boy winning the Super Bowl and driving off in some poor man’s car because he has to pay all his big bucks to some jezebel.” She shook her head, then took a cookie from her plate. “Can’t be having none of that. No, siree.”
What I didn’t have the heart to tell her was that unless I pulled up my grades, I wouldn’t have to worry about that at all.
I spent the better half of the morning with Mrs. Seaton, playing Rummikub and eating my weight in baked goods. The sun was high in the sky by the time I pulled out of Sunny Times Trailer Park. Not one cloud in the blue sky. It was the kind of day I’d lived for as a kid, and while I should have found a sense of peace in that drive, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had really fucked up.
“I’ve never been smart, but once Dad died, I just lost all motivation.” I glanced at Dog sitting in the passenger seat, nose in the air like some sort of royalty. “The least you could do is look at me.”
He turned his head toward the window.
“I’m throwing away your treats when—” That one word was all it took for him to look at me, tongue out, that slight-Shiba smile on his face. “You better be glad you’re cute.”
As soon as I opened the driver’s side door, he leaped over me, pissed on Rogue’s tire—again, I appreciated how much of an asshole that dog was—then he took off toward the front door.
Bell was sprawled out on the couch, staring at the TV. “How’s your hangover?” He grunted when Dog jumped straight on his crotch.
“Had worse.” I collapsed onto the chair in the corner of the room, then kicked off my sneakers.
A few minutes into an episode of Clarkson’s Farm, a loud bang came from upstairs, followed by Rogue screaming, “Fuck!”
Bellamy’s confused gaze met mine.
I thumbed toward the entranceway. “Ten bucks that has something to do with Cassie.”
“It always has something to do with Cassie.”
Another string of curses echoed through the house, followed by heavy footfalls thudding down the stairs. “Guess what I just heard?” Rogue stormed into the living room, scowling like someone had shit on his designer sheets.
“Cassie fucked the soccer team?” Bell snorted before changing the channel.
Rogue’s hardened gaze narrowed on him. “No. That Tommy-fucking-Mitchell was selling E last night.” He opened the coat closet and grabbed one of the baseball bats. “Double what we charge.”
Tommy trying to buy pills off us was one thing. His getting them from someone else, and then selling them, on our turf…that was pretty much him putting in his last supper request on Death Row. “Where the hell did he get E from?” No one else sold the crap but us.
“Some cunt stole my stash.” Rogue grabbed another bat and tossed it to me.
Anger bled through me. Someone had the audacity to come into our house and steal our shit—for Tommy. I gripped the wood in my hand and shoved out of the chair. “You know damn well that asshole had someone do that for him.”