Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 112850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
“Mace, we’re ready,” Lori called from the back door.
Past Lori, I saw her husband, Max, tying down the chairs in the back of my old pickup truck.
“I thought I’d just let you handle it. Max can take my truck,” I called, taking several strides out the door, standing in the middle of the parking lot, truly mortified with what I was seeing. “I’ll hang out here and wait for y’all to get back.” As I spoke, Max leaped out of the bed of the truck, lifting the tailgate to snuggly shut, both chairs in place. “I’ll work on the doorbell while you’re gone.”
“Can’t,” Lori said, startling me from behind. “We’ll follow you, because you acted weird while they were here, but after that, we have to go to Max’s mom’s house to get the kids. We won’t be comin’ back this direction.”
“They’re tied down. Shouldn’t move. Follow us, Lori knows the way,” Max said, tossing my truck keys to me. “It’s hot as hell.” Max wiped a sheen of sweat off his brow while heading to his semi-new Dodge pickup truck. A far cry from the classic 1980’s Ford truck I drove.
My thoughts zigged and zagged as I tried to come up with any suitable reason to get out of going, but nothing came to mind. I mean not one scrap of information to build an excuse on. My brain had gone numb. “Lori, you should take the chairs,” I said lamely.
“Why?” she said, her tone frustrated and cutting, her annoyance with me showing clearly. “They’re your chairs, and he paid you four hundred dollars. He deserves our personal customer service. Quit bein’ a baby.”
I stared at her. This brain numb thing held tight, giving me absolutely zero comebacks to her argument. My arsenal of throwbacks I always kept at the ready had packed up and left me.
“Gawd, Mace. Get your ass in the truck. I’ve got to get the kids.” Lori dismissed him with a fling of an uncaring hand as my heart thumped against my rib cage.
“Okay,” I finally agreed, walking with a slow, defeated stride to my truck. “We’ve gotta be fast. I gotta get home.”
“No, you don’t,” she said with disgust, climbing into Max’s truck. “You don’t have a life. There’s literally nothing waitin’ for you except Bud Light.”
She forgot the case of Heineken.
Why weren’t the neurons popping the comebacks off inside my head like normal? They usually never gave me a break.
Maybe I freaked my own self out with the primal response I’d felt every time I closed my eyelids and saw the sparkle of those amber eyes. I’d never forget the depth of the guy’s stare.
By nothing more than rote, I climbed into the driver’s seat of my truck and pulled my sunglasses in place. A quick glance in the rearview mirror stopped me short. The constant in and out from air conditioning to the extreme heat had the sweat drying, my hair going every which way. The loose curls were already hard to tame…
With a disgusted huff, I admitted I was lying to myself again. I never looked in a mirror long enough to care about my appearance. Yet right now, I recognized the layer of dried, gritty dust spotting my face, creasing in my neck. I instantly used my fingers to do my best at pulling myself together.
My whole approach to grooming came once a year when I scheduled a buzz cut and then let it grow until the next year when I did it again. I was a solid month behind on my annual calendar.
Shit. Based on the reflection in this dumb rearview mirror, nothing I did helped put me together.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
The perspective helped. I put the rearview mirror back in place then shoved the key in the ignition, starting the truck with a whimper.
I didn’t want to do this.
It was a really bad idea. Yet, I followed my sister and Max out of the parking lot and onto the road. At this point, I could only hope for my truck to throw a rod to keep me from having to deliver these chairs.
=♥=
Slade
Bent with his head inside the refrigerator, Wyatt tossed one can after another of Bud Light around the kitchen to where all five guys stood around the large center island, watching Scout expertly season the steaks.
I skillfully grabbed the can from the air and weighed the options of opening the beer after being shaken while airborne. Since I lived on the edge of life, I twirled the can a few times on the counter and risked it, popping the tab. Luckily, the contents didn’t shoot out everywhere, enabling the long swig I took of the cold brew.
Bud Light reminded me of home, good times, and these guys.
“Is Old Man Jones still kickin’?” I asked, anchoring a hip on the counter as I reminisced about the aging man who’d stand on the bleachers, barking out orders while they played football for their high school’s varsity team. Since Wyatt was the only one who’d stayed in the area, these questions were the general updates they received every year.