Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
“She had long, blond hair. Just like this.” He finishes the braid down my spine, and his hands tremble just once near the end as he ties it off with a rubber band from his wrist. “She sang really well. All the time.”
I wait for more, but that’s all he says.
“Why did they die?” I lean back into him.
“They were in danger.” He hugs me from behind, holding me tight. “Real danger. And they tried to shield us from it. None of it was your fault, and you don’t need the details. Not tonight. Not ever.”
“Are we in danger?”
“As long as I live, I will keep you safe. That’s my job.”
“Okay. I love you.”
“Love you, too, Little Bird.” He rests his mouth on the top of my head.
The tent flaps rustle with the wind, and suddenly, I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open.
But I can sleep now, because he’ll be here, guarding me in the dark.
Three years later
I stand in front of the electronics store and pretend the ground is interesting. Cracked concrete, gum spots, cigarette butts, anything to keep my good eye from drifting toward the glass door.
Because my other eye? It’s a whole situation.
It throbs when I blink. I smeared on heavy black makeup this morning, and my hair hangs in my face. But I can feel the bruise pulsing through the strands.
Jag expects me to be here every day after school. If I don’t show, he’ll find me. Which would be fantastic if I didn’t share a room with two other girls.
If Jag climbed through our window, the whole foster home would explode. Then we’d have to move again, and I’m tired. Tired of switching schools and learning new rules and changing my name, appearance, and identity.
I hike my backpack higher on my shoulder and go in, jingling the bell over the door.
“He’s in the back.” The store owner stands behind the counter, not bothering to look up.
I shuffle past old DVD players and towers of discount phone cases until I reach the storage aisle.
Jag crouches there with a box cutter, slicing tape off a shipment of speakers.
His hair curls around his ears, shaggy and wild. It looks different now. Grown-up different. He could be on a movie poster if he ever bothered to smile.
The amber color of his eyes is different, too. Harder. Older. Meaner. Because he learned too many things nobody his age should learn.
And his body… I pretend not to notice, but he grows in these strange, sudden ways. He’s big. Everywhere. Not fat. Every part of him is hard and strong. His uniform shirt pulls across his chest, and his muscles stretch and stack like bricks.
His face is dreamy at every angle, and sometimes, when I look at him, my stomach feels weird.
I’m thirteen. I shouldn’t notice things like this. Especially not about my brother.
But I do.
Everyone does.
I brush my hair over my eye and walk toward him. He glances up. Just a flick. Barely a second.
The box cutter freezes in his hand. His jaw turns to stone, and he stands in one smooth push of muscle and anger.
“Who?” He tosses the blade and strides straight to me.
It’s not a question. It’s bloodstains under his fingernails.
“It’s nothing.” My heartbeat kicks into a drum solo. “I’m fine.”
“Let’s go.” He grabs my hand, firm but not rough, and pulls me toward the front.
“Stop. Wait. You’re at work.”
He doesn’t stop.
“Where are you going?” The owner straightens behind the counter. “Hey! You can’t leave, Simon!”
Simon. I’m not the only one with a dozen names.
“Then I quit.” Jag flings his plastic badge across the counter and keeps walking, hauling me with him.
This job is better than all the awful things he’s done for money over the years. He can’t quit.
Outside, the Las Vegas heat shocks my system, but Jag doesn’t slow. We’re half a block from the store before I manage to yank my hand out of his.
“You can’t lose your job.” My voice shakes with all the things I can’t tell him. “Please, Jag.”
He whirls on me. “This is more important than a fucking job.”
My throat closes. Sometimes he forgets how big he is. How scary he looks when he’s mad. But I know he’s not mad at me. He’s mad for me. Which is worse.
His hand swallows up mine and pulls. We walk fast, him dragging, me stumbling, past tourists and pawn shops and the guy who sits on crates and yells at the sky. We cut down the side alley that smells like rotten fruit. Then another that smells like death. And another. And another. Until we end up behind the abandoned apartment building where he lives.
We climb crumbling stairs. On the top floor, he pulls out the padlock key from around his neck and shoves it into the lock he drilled into the door.