Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 107673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
My father had earned a reputation for being meaner than a diamondback rattlesnake. Seriously angry most of the time, but my choice to quit football took his wrath to an all-time high. Where my father refused to look at or speak to me, not a single word since the night I broke the news months ago, he directed the brunt of his anger out on my mom.
I finally cast a look at her. The pretense of not hearing her was lost anyway when all three of my friends turned her way.
“Hi, Mrs. Brooks,” Lauren said, still bent over the cookies. “I made you guys something special to eat for the drive. They dropped, but some survived.”
“Hi, girls.” My mom lifted a hand in a wave. “You’re sweet. Beau will have them eaten before we ever reach the interstate.”
Lauren beamed at me, clearly loving the idea.
Scott whacked me with force on the chest. “Get your ass movin’, Brooks. We got money to make.”
What was left of my mood sank.
Scott and I started toward the house in unison, step for step. My mother waited at the door as we walked across the yard. She didn’t trust me to actually follow through and come inside. Only stepping aside to hold the door open for Scott and stopping me with a hand on my forearm.
“Please try to be happy for us. This is the fresh start that we need.” Her words ran on a loop, like a broken record, over and over again. I got it. And she wasn’t wrong.
I finally gave a single nod, my gaze focused on the man with a clipboard, assessing the many boxes and furniture in the living room.
Scott came into my line of vision and took on a fighter’s stance in front of me. His fists drawn, executing the perfect playful one-two punch at my shoulder. “Burnin’ daylight, son. I’m stronger than you, no matter what you think. I got two to your one today.”
“You’re a douche,” I muttered, rubbing a hand at my shoulder. He’d used way more strength than necessary. My mom released her hold on my arm, allowing me to follow Scott inside.
“Don’t worry. I’ll console the girls when you’re gone,” Scott tossed out, winking at me from over his shoulder.
I added cluelessness to Scott’s irritating traits.
“Still a douche,” I said.
With a quick glance over my shoulder, I saw the worry on my mother’s face. We shared a brief stare, which meant something, but I wasn’t sure what. I didn’t like her being worried about me. I did enough of that for both of us.
Southlake, Texas
“Dasham Richmond, you do understand that you’re only fifteen years old?” Amelia asked, but it wasn’t the question it seemed, since she regularly said I didn’t act my age. As my nanny, I suppose she’d know.
I didn’t respond from my seat on the edge of the bed. My feet rested on the side rail, my elbows on my knees. Amelia stood in my closet, pulling out hanger after hanger, showing me various articles of clothing.
Amelia had been with me since birth. She knew me better than anyone. Right now, we played the staring game, and I was winning. I always did. Eventually, she rolled her eyes. Her shoulders followed the same pattern as she turned to the rack of clothes and placed the oversized short-sleeve shirt on the rod.
“If you don’t stop rejecting these clothes, you’re not gonna have anything to take out of town with you.”
She wasn’t wrong, but I also had an appearance to keep up. “Where did this stuff come from? Who makes the trends? Why would anyone wear slouchy, baggy clothes?”
Amelia presented another shirt. A short-sleeved, front button, slim fit that had me taking a closer look. She read me like a book, easily seeing my interest, and was ready to answer my next questions.
“It’s from the GAP so no one will think you’re pretentious. But it’ll fit your frame so no one will think you dress poorly.”
I raised my brows. Hers shot up too while trying to hide a grin. I stuck out a foot, lifting from the bed to take the hanger.
“So, is it safe to pull this style shirt? They’ll also go with the khakis and plaid shorts you’re taking.”
“Nothing blue,” I reminded her. “It’s not my color, and absolutely no cargo shorts or shorts that go past my knees. And no blue jean shorts.”
She gave me a knowing look that I interpreted to mean this wasn’t her first time dealing with me. Now it was me trying my best to hide a grin.
“Dasham.” I glanced over my shoulder at the intercom system installed close to my bedroom door. The sound of my mother’s voice was too faint. After all the years of living in this prodigious home, how had she not learned to work the communication system properly?