Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
And for the next few hours, that’s exactly what I did. And when Sage found a guy to grind all over, I danced by myself, allowing the bartender to pull me up onto the bar with a trio of other girls, putting us on display for the whole club to see.
I was there.
Arms up in the air.
Hips swaying.
When a hand suddenly grabbed my wrist, yanking me down off the bar.
“The fuck are you doing?” a voice snarled at me.
Snarled.
When I whipped around to face it, ready to throw a fucking fit until someone tossed this asshole out, I saw a ghost.
Someone I was sure I’d never see again.
Brooks.
My brother’s old best friend.
The guy I’d had a crush on since I was, like, ten.
Until, one day, he disappeared.
Leaving my brother behind.
And breaking my stupid, silly, girlish heart.
What the fuck was he doing here?
CHAPTER THREE
Brooks
Clay lived just a few blocks from the duplex we’d grown up in, our families living on either side for our entire lives. Until, well, until his parents each died within a few years of one another. And he hadn’t been able to keep up with the bills.
It was a small apartment building, maybe fifty or so apartments. Which was likely why they were anxious to get Clay’s shit out, so someone new could move in.
“I’ll leave these with you,” the super said, handing me the keys after unlocking the apartment. “Figure you will be in and out a lot,” he added, sounding apologetic, but firm.
People died.
Life had to still go on.
That was the vibe he was giving.
“Appreciate it,” I said, nodding. “How long do I have?”
“I’d really like to be able to get someone new in here the beginning of the month. Clay, he kept the place nice. Don’t need to do much in there.”
Two weeks and a couple days.
Realistically, it was plenty of time to clear out an apartment.
Emotionally, it felt way too fucking short.
But I would have to rally.
“Such a shame,” the super said, shaking his balding head. “He was so young still.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, a knife stabbing me in the chest.
“Well, I’ll… leave you to it. If you need some boxes, there’s always a stack out back. Sometimes they break ‘em down, sometimes they don’t.”
“Thank you,” I said, realizing how unprepared I was to actually do this job.
I needed boxes.
Black bags.
To know what local places took furniture donations.
A fucking storage unit for shit I didn’t know what to do with, or didn’t want to part with.
The super walked off, and I pushed open the door, getting hit in the face with that unique scent closed-up spaces had. Dead air, dust, with the slight undercurrent of a person’s ‘house smell’ underneath it all.
In Clay’s case, it was a familiar house smell.
Lemon cleaner and the cologne he’d been wearing since we were teens.
Clay’s parents had been borderline hoarders growing up, the house always jam-packed and, while not filthy, not exactly clean either. They were both too busy working double shifts to be able to keep on top of shit around the house.
As soon as he was old enough, Clay started unpacking and cleaning. His compulsion toward cleanliness stuck with him into his apartments as he moved on.
I don’t think I ever went to his place to hang out and found clothes on the floor, dishes in the sink, or not finding the place smelling like lemon cleaners.
As a whole, the place was neat.
But there was a desk near the windows that overlooked the street. And that thing was a fucking disaster.
Papers were strewn everywhere.
It was more than the super looking for information on the next of kin. This was weeks or even months of junk accumulated.
Weird.
I walked over there, finding the folder sitting on top of the mess with the words In case of emergency written on the top in black permanent marker with Clay’s trademark sideways, blocky print.
I had that same print taking up a full fucking page in my yearbook. Not because he wrote me some massive note. Just because he had no ability to keep his writing an appropriate size. His teachers used to rag on him about it all the time.
Taking a steadying breath, I flipped open the folder, finding everything you could possibly need if something happened.
A living will with excruciating detail about what he did, or did not, want done to save his life.
His actual will, leaving the assets of his ‘estate’—his bank accounts, car, the contents of a safety deposit box, everything worth anything—to his sister.
But behind those more official documents was a handwritten note saying that the cleaning out of his apartment would be a task completed by me. Hence why the super had called me, I guess.
Knowing Clay, he didn’t want to leave this kind of work to someone close to him, someone who would find it hard to do it, but wouldn’t have a choice.