Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
“Don’t even think about it or I’ll shoot your head off,” comes the loud, sweet voice of my beloved. “We’re here to save you.”
The boy turns around to see Josie standing in the entrance of the barn with the barrel of the long arm pointed toward him. The boy sways, probably from hunger. I jump up and grab the weapon and throw it aside.
With my hands on my hips, I say, “We’re here to help. Sit down before you fall down. I’ll get the others.”
His lips frame a snarl. “Where’s the fuck-ass Cole and his dad? I’m going to kill both of them.”
“Cole died. His dad killed him. Should we keep talking or do you want me to help your friends?”
That news shuts the boy up. I drop into the cellar and find four other boys lying almost lifeless. The dank basement smells like feces and piss. I pick up the first one and head toward the opening. A ladder drops down. I look up to see the face of Josie and the boy who have decided, literally, to lay down the weapons and work together. With teamwork, we’re able to lift all four of the boys out of the cellar.
“Emergency services said they would send another vehicle.”
“They need it.”
The one boy that tried to attack me has lost all his energy and sits against the wall with a smaller boy’s head in his lap. I don’t know any of these kids, although one of them has a Pipefitter tat on his arm. The other guys, including the attacker, are unmarked. They’re all pretty tall, and it makes me think they must have met each other playing basketball on the streets.
“Rebel, you got a piece of paper on you?”
“Am I a journalist in the making?” She digs in her pocket and hands me a tiny notebook with a tinier pen. I eye it dubiously. She sighs and says, “What do you want me to write?”
I recite the address and take the paper over to the boy that tried to stab me in the eye. “If you’ve got no place to go, no family, you can go here. Nothing legal happens there, and once you’re in, you can’t leave, but we watch out for each other.” I look down at the smaller boy. “If you’ve got something to protect, it’s not a bad place.”
The sirens of an emergency services vehicle whine in the distance. Hearing rescue is near, the boy gives in to his exhaustion and closes his eyes. I leave him to his rest and join Josie.
“Sometimes, the street boys have to stick together.” I shrug. She reaches up and cups my cheek.
“You’re a good boy,” she says.
“I’m not.” But I lean into her hand.
“A good boy,” she repeats. And I let her say that because I want to be. For her.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
JOSIE
The adrenaline that was once pumping through me has fully slipped away. I’m ready to go home, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon. When the police and emergency services eventually arrived, we all were taken to the hospital.
I kept insisting that I was fine, more worried about what was going on with my dad and what condition he’s in. Still, the police and medical staff made me get checked over, telling me it was necessary not only to be sure I was fully okay but also because the record would be used against Cole’s father when all the charges are filed against him.
He was screaming and talking crazy when the cops untied him and put him in cuffs. I don’t know what to make of that man. He’s lost his mind, which only makes this all the more sad.
People always think they know what’s best for others, pushing their will upon them. Cole’s father became so extreme in his views that in trying to save people, or so he believed, he’d lost it all.
“You with me, rebel?” I force my eyes back open. I hadn’t realized they’d started to close.
“My dad?” I ask. It’s the same question I ask over and over.
“Getting his X-ray still.” I nod. At least we have good insurance, and my diabatic ass always hits the deductible on my own.
“Are they watching us?” I ask Bam, flicking my eyes over to the two uniformed officers who are mulling around in the emergency waiting room. Fortunately, the place is dead.
“Yes,” he mutters.
“We have to talk to them, don’t we?”
“I’m sure.” We had spoken to them some when they’d arrived on the scene to give them details of what all had transpired. I’m in no rush to speak to the police.
“Ms. Gries,” a nurse calls. I jump to my feet; my knees give out, but Bam’s arm wraps around me.
“My numbers are good,” I tell Bam before he can go down that path. “Just exhausted.” His mouth forms a hard line, but he nods.