Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I don't know.
But I did it.
And I kept it with me most of the time.
Otherwise, well, I didn't have much to my name.
A little cash.
Some sharp objects.
A big old bottle of ibuprofen.
A little wooden bear statue Holden had carved for me one day. After that night.
The night the lock on the door failed.
The night he came barreling into my room with his demons racing through his veins.
I'd taken a blow to the head before managing to scramble out through my window, falling down wrong, twisting my ankle, but having to run on it regardless because he was coming. I still to this day wasn't sure how I got away from him in the woods he knew so well but I was just starting to learn, but by some miracle I had, hauling myself high up into a tree, lying flat and still against the trunk, just waiting for day to come.
When I had finally hobbled back to my makeshift home, I'd found my breakfast there waiting for me along with the wooden bear on the tray.
Holden wasn't good at words.
But sometimes his gestures spoke volumes.
He was sorry.
He, in his own way, valued me, didn't want me to leave, wanted me to know it wasn't him that had broken into my room, that it was a part of him that existed in dark moments.
And, well, I had started to understand.
I kept the bear.
I treasured the bear.
But I made sure I secured that goddamn door.
"I can get by with what I have."
"I think we can do better than just getting you by, Ace," he said, the word seeming to shock us both the moment it was out of his lips. It had slipped out naturally, out of habit, old and familiar.
He'd always referred to Iggy's friends by nicknames he associated with us. Sometimes, when he was being a condescending ass, he'd call us kids. Or he'd call us punks. Or nerds.
But me?
Me, he liked to call Ace.
I was Ace.
In my silly, girlish mind, I was his Ace.
My heart always fluttered when I heard it.
There was no flutter now.
I didn't flutter anymore.
But there was a jolt, something electric. Something stronger than a flutter.
Maybe the old me letting me know for the first time that she was still around, buried deep, but not as dead as I thought she was.
"Since you are as skinny as ever, I think I can figure out your size."
"Here, let me give you some cash."
"Fuck off with that," he scoffed, rolling his eyes.
He'd always paid when we were kids. Even though I knew he wasn't rolling in it. I always thought it was rather gentlemanly of him. One of the many traits I had admired.
But that was then.
This was now.
Things had changed.
Maybe he hadn't.
But I had.
"I insist."
"You can insist all you want. You're not paying for shit."
"Vance..."
"I'm afraid it's not up for debate."
"Everything is up for debate."
"Yeah? How are you going to convince me to let you pay, huh?" he asked, lazy smile tipping up. Familiar. Charming as it always had been.
All words seemed to fail me in an instant.
"That's what I thought," he agreed, making his way to the door. "Give me a few hours. And lock the door."
I felt my lips curving up a bit at that. At the idea that any monster that showed up at my door could be anywhere near as vicious as I was. Even in this neighborhood.
"Will do," I agreed to appease him.
"Hey, Ace?" he called, standing in the open doorway, eyes a little lost, a little far away.
"Yeah?"
"It's good to have you home."
With that, he was gone, the rumbling of his bike speaking of his departure.
I poked around, making sure I wasn't sharing the space with any four-or more- legged friends before making my way back out to my bike, and finding I wasn't alone.
"Think if he's looking to screw you, he'd at least spring for that sleep and fuck off the highway. Thirty bucks a night and it has better amenities than this shithole."
"Maybe I like it rough and dirty," I declared, rummaging into my bag to pull out my double-bladed hunting karambit, letting it catch the light.
"Well, then you fit right in here, don't you?" he asked, flicking open a lighter, holding it up to the cigarette between his lips.
This was a man you thought about when someone said a man looked like bad news.
Tall, fit, scruffy, wearing scuffed up boots and sporting a scar straight down his left cheekbone.
"I was born and raised in this town. With that accent, though, you weren't."
I knew a twang when I heard one. Even if it had gotten roughed up a little by spending some time on the upper east coast.
"Louisiana, darlin', since you want to know so bad."
"What the hell are you doing all the way up here?"
"Looking for some trouble."
"Then you're probably going to find it. You my neighbor?" I asked, jerking my head to the shack directly connected to Vance's.