Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I lean on the counter and pull up the GrubTrain grocery delivery app. I order a few essentials, using the last forty dollars in my account.
I use the thirty minutes until the food arrives to go upstairs take a quick, much-needed shower and change into a baggy off the shoulder t-shirt with the logo of my favorite band, Veruca Salt, emblazoned across the front. The grey shorts I change into used to be sweatpants, but when they became frayed from stepping on the bottoms of the too-long legs, I took a pair of scissors to them and boom.
Sweat-shorts.
When I’m done, I head back downstairs and sort through the mail. My last name is Helburn, but all the mail comes in the alias name of Jackson. My father had changed it years ago. Insisted it was because of his work with the government.
It was years before I found out that was all a lie.
HE was a lie.
I swallow down the familiar anger rising in my throat. I don’t have the time or energy to deal with memories of my father’s actions or the mess he’s made of our lives and the lives of countless others.
I chuck the junk mail in the trash and set off on the first of my several-times-a-day routine of checking the locks on all of the windows and doors. Flipping open the alarm panel I click in my code and make sure it’s in working order.
Twice.
In the master bedroom, I step over my dad’s clothes strewn about the floor, walking with purpose over to the window. I check the lock. It’s intact. I head back out, shutting the door behind me quickly, releasing a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Taking the steps two at a time, I head back down to the living room of the two-bedroom, three-level, dilapidated townhouse.
It looks the same as the day we first moved in four years ago. Empty nails from where the previous tenants hung decorations and pictures poke out from the drywall at various intervals. The only furniture, a ratty brown three cushion sofa in the living room—no television— and a couple of mismatched barstools tucked under the raised counter separating the small living room from the equally small kitchen.
The doorbell rings, and even though I was expecting it, I’m still cautious.
I’m always cautious.
Standing on my tip-toes I glance through the peephole. On the other end of the brass tunnel is Duke, wagging his eyebrows and contorting his lips around his teeth. I smile because it’s impossible not to smile. Duke’s carrying a grocery bag in each hand. He holds them up to the peep hole, grinning proudly like a hunter holding up his kills.
Unbolting all the locks on the door takes a while because there are eight of them.
Duke’s megawatt smile greets me after I finally open the door.
“Hey,” Duke says smoothly. “I saw your order come through, and I wanted to make sure I brought it to you personally.” His smile widens and it’s is so damn bright it’s like staring into the sun. His sandy blonde curls are being cruelly squished by a neon green GrubTrain baseball cap.
Duke raises the bags again, flexing his muscular biceps beneath his matching GrubTrain polo shirt. He winks when he catches me looking at his abs flexing under the fabric. My face warms. He leans in and gives me an awkward hug around the grocery bags. He smells good, like Irish soap.
“Hey, Duke,” I say slowly, drawing out my words so he has no choice but to look at my lips. I bat my eyelashes and meet his hazel gaze. “Thanks for bringing those over so fast.”
“Anything for you, ma’am,” he says with a fake western style drawl.
“Ma’am? Hmmmm…I like the sound of that,” I tease, biting my bottom lip.
Duke shifts from one foot to the other, and I realize he’s shifting the bags to cover the growing bulge in his pants.
“Is your dad home today?” Duke asks, poking his head through the door and looking around.
“Working in the basement as usual,” I say. “Also, ignoring me as usual.” I stand to the side and let him in.
“I won’t ignore you,” Duke says suggestively, wagging his eyebrows on his way to the kitchen.
I chuckle and playfully swat at Duke’s butt. I’m about to close the door, but I freeze as I’m hit by a hot tingling of awareness. It warms my chest and spreads through to my limbs. My pulse spikes. I slowly push the door back open half expecting to see someone standing on the other side.
There’s no one there.
Duke is talking to me from the kitchen, but I’m not listening. Cautiously, I step out onto the little concrete pad of a porch and look around in every direction.
Nothing.
The gas station across the street has a few customers walking in and out. A few kids are playing catch in the empty lot next to the fence that separates it from the convenience store.