Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
He chuckles. “What if I am, Blue Eyes?”
The stupid nickname makes me feel seen in ways he can’t imagine. It’s not my family name, not Butcher, and not something based on my skill. Simply a pretty part of me he’s noticed and wants to make sure I know.
“You can stay. Since you’re already here. But only this one time. I’ve had a shit day,” I confess, fighting the urge to tell him all about it when I need to keep my mouth shut.
A shadow passes over his features, and he puts me down, only to slide his arms around me. Just like that, in the middle of my living room, as if that kind of thing was normal. “Sounds like a pain. Wanna feel better?” With a soft smirk, he nips my nose with his teeth.
A wave of tenderness hits me so hard I find it hard to speak and nod noncommittally. It’s been a long time since someone cared how I feel and I don’t know what to do with that, so I hook two fingers against his.
Road looks back at me, rubbing my palm with his thumb, but when neither of us says a thing for a few seconds, he clears his throat and nods toward my bookshelf. “So… you like… chickens?”
I choke out a laugh because that’s so stupid, but it cheers me up. I don’t even have the energy to scold him for rummaging through my bookshelf. “They were my mother’s, the books about chickens. I don’t have the heart to throw them away.”
“The plates and salt and pepper shakers too?” he asks, nodding toward my kitchen. Clearly, he’s been everywhere. I don’t even care to ask how he got in.
I shake my head. “She loved those damn chickens. She even…” I worry Road will laugh at me, but he’s listening. “She got me a chicken for my tenth birthday. We had the coop out there.” I point at the back of the yard through the window. There’s no trace of it left now, but I remember how it looked as if that image was etched on the backs of my eyelids.
Road chuckles. “Wow, so you had like… a real family, huh?”
I squeeze his hand. “Yeah, Dad would host parties for the whole club and their families in the summer. More meat on the grill than even thirty bikers can eat.” I know it’s the past, it’s not club secrets, yet it still feels kinda illicit to tell him about my family. “You… didn’t?” I glance into his eyes, hit by just how much I want to know him beyond what movies he likes, or that he hates spinach and tea.
Road shrugs and rests his chin on my shoulder. “I wish. Nah, pretty sure my parents only remembered my name because I was the second oldest.”
My mouth dries, and it hits me that Roadkill can’t be his real name. I know so many people primarily by their nicknames that it didn’t even occur to me I don’t know what else Road answers to. “So… what’s your real name?”
Road leans back, as if I’ve struck him, and his face pinches. He’s considering it as if I asked him for nuclear codes. “Fine. But swear you won’t call me that, or tell anyone.”
I smirk. “Oh… Okay. Is it Ebenezer? Morton? Balthasar?”
Road shakes his head. “Nothing as fancy as that. I’m Two. Nice to meet you,” he says and offers me his hand.
“Two? What kind of name is that?”
“A funny one,” Road tells me with the most somber expression I’ve seen on him. “Guess who was called Number Two at school.”
My smile turns into a scowl and I hate his parents even more than I did before. “That’s fucked up. Guess your second birthday party must have been weird,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, but it backfires immediately.
“Didn’t know something like a birthday existed until I saw it in a movie.”
“What? When’s your birthday then?” Because he deserves a little celebration, even if it’s just a very sloppy blowjob.
“Don’t remember half the time, honestly,” he says, but I’m already planning to get my hands on his ID and check the date.
“Tell you what though, I had a lot of time on my hands, so I ended up doing a few repairs.” He points to the hallway with the remounted coat hanger.
“I’ve noticed,” I say and stroke the back of his arm. “It was equally nice and disturbing. Why would you do that?”
“It was broken. Figured you’d be happy to have it fixed. I also did a few minor things. Cleaned the U-bends in all the sinks and fixed the shower,” he says, pulling me upstairs, because of course he wants to show me the stick he fetched for me. “But I was also thinking, you must lose a lot of heat in winter. You know, I know how to install under-roof insulation. Wouldn’t take me much time either, if you paid for the supplies.”