Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 91622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Just take it Jag, if you’re that hungry, but if I find out you’re just wasting it because you’re hoarding for winter or something, I’m not gonna be happy.”
“I do need it!” Jag protested, but then remembered he’d brought something to offer Frank in return. His friend was always delighted when given something shiny.
Jag pulled out the pouch he’d made himself and emptied its contents onto the large table in the middle of the room that served as a kitchen, living, and dining room all in one.
The wad of paper money he’d found in the seat of an abandoned car rolled toward the edge, but Frank caught it just in time. Jag smiled, presenting his loot of rings, watches, and all manner of sparkly trinkets he’d found scavenging in the junkyard. It was strange how metal, plastic, and wood were all dead materials, yet always bore fruit when Jag went gathering.
Frank uttered a soft grunt and grabbed a shiny yellow ring, which he immediately slipped onto his smallest finger. The pale brown stone embedded at the top was of a similar shade as Frank’s skin and didn’t look as decorative as the plastic bracelet with shiny stickers, but civilization had arbitrary ways of valuing those kinds of things. Jag generally didn’t care, but when he noticed the tropical bird on the colorful trinket, he picked it up, glad to find it light. And the string holding the individual chunks of plastic was in good shape too.
“You can have it all except this one. I will take it.”
Frank eyed him with one brow rising slowly, but he grabbed a mug and poured himself a glass of the black coffee he enjoyed each morning. “Fine. Did everything go as planned with the body?”
Jag toyed with the rainbow-colored beads on the bracelet, absorbed by thoughts of his future mate’s tattoos. “I’ve handled everything,” he said. It wasn’t not-true.
Frank shrugged and offered Jag another bottle of medicine before dragging a chair to the table, so he could examine the loot pile over a cup of his sharp beverage. “Remember, no more than two tablets at a time, up to four times a day.”
Jag took note of the instructions, in case his mate couldn’t read either, and was off. One of his mothers had been a nurse before joining their family in the woods, so he had confidence in his first aid skills, but his prey might have meddled with the wound dressing since Jag had left so there was no time to waste.
The home Shane shared with his mate, Rosen, was located halfway to the den, and bordered with the perimeter fence. Much newer than Frank’s home, it was also maintained with more care and even had a few trees planted in the garden, as if in hope that the view of the junk hills would be eventually blocked by leaves. A threat could come from any direction, so Jag considered it a risky move on their part. Then again, they also hadn’t put in much work into the house and had had it delivered in parts that were assembled within a couple of days, instead of building it themselves.
So maybe Jag’s den was made up of mismatched items found in the junkyard, not wood, and didn’t have a porch, but it wouldn’t be as easily spotted, at least. While Jag had to admit Shane’s house had its charm, thanks to Rosen adorning it with figures of fantastical creatures that he made himself, the large statues made it stand out more to any predator looking for an easy meal.
Yet now that Jag had his mate to consider, he couldn’t help but wonder what his man would think of the winged lizards crawling up the drainpipe and their sparkling eyes made of colorful glass. Jag had a vision for their den, but he’d be open to changes and suggestions, unlike his tyrant of a father who always required things to be done his way or not at all.
He stopped by Shane’s house when he spotted the laundry hanging outside. His mate looked stunning naked, with the plump, tattooed flesh on show, but Jag had to be reasonable, so he grabbed some of Shane’s baggier clothes. The summer sun could be merciless to bare skin and Jag couldn’t expect his mate to walk around naked when he wasn’t ready to do that himself. The junkyard wasn’t friendly to bare feet either, filled with sharp objects and splintering wood, so Jag snatched Shane’s boots off the porch too.
Excitement burned the inside of Jag’s skin as he ran through a narrow passage between two rusted cars, then crawled under an old truck before venturing into a hidden valley of junk. Nobody ever came through here, and Jag had a strong suspicion Frank might have used this place to bury corpses in the past. But nature had its way of reclaiming flesh and bone, so whatever was left under the dirt and sparse grass sprouting around his home was none of his concern.