Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“And yet you’re the one going to prison,” she shoots back, pulling out something from her back pocket. She holds up a pair of white cotton panties. “Found them in the couch.”
“They’re not mine.”
She reaches out, yanking me by the ear.
“Ow!” I pull away. “Celli, dammit …”
She gets in my face. “I would’ve expected something a little fancier for a St. Carmen girl.”
She means Krisjen.
She tosses the panties at me, and I catch them, firing back, “A St. Carmen girl knows it’s not the wrapper that sells the candy.”
She scowls, walking away, and I can’t help but smile after her. I’m going to miss her.
We pay her to clean up a couple of times a week, but I think she’d do it for free, honestly. She’s determined to be a part of this family.
She’s already dated Dallas and me, but I have no doubt someone’s going to marry her eventually. Just not me. She’s way too possessive. Even six years after we’ve broken up.
Although, I’m sure it’s more because I gave a Saint a ride home. The women in the Bay are territorial. They don’t like the rich girls coming over here and stealing their men. Even for a night.
But, I wonder how wealthy Krisjen actually is. I don’t expect her to pay me for repairs. We’re friends. Kind of. But why wouldn’t she have the money? Something’s going on.
I head into the kitchen, sticking the underwear in my pocket, and open the fridge, taking a swig out of the orange juice container.
Army zips up Dex’s lunch bag and screws on the cap of his water bottle. “Did she question you about the underwear?” he asks me.
I can hear the laughter in his voice.
I smile, nodding and putting the juice away. “I’ll make sure Krisjen gets them back.”
Or not. From the sound of it, we won’t see her again. Or at least I won’t before I leave.
Army slams the dishwasher shut, starts it, and pulls on his T-shirt. “All right,” he calls out. “I’m dropping the kid off at Jasmine’s and heading in with Dallas and Trace. You can ride with me unless you want to get a head start on the pools at the Bay Club and Fox Hill.”
“I’m not going in.” I pull my phone off the charger, checking for messages. “I’m done,” I tell him.
I feel his eyes on me.
I refuse to look at him.
“Iron …” he says.
But I ignore him. “Is Macon in the garage?”
“Iron …”
I hesitate, then look over my shoulder. “What?”
He stares at me, and I know what he’s going to say without him uttering a word. “You know what.” He shakes his head. “It’s your funeral.”
I walk to the door and pull it open, seeing Macon down in the garage working on a green seventies Wagoneer. Its owner is a regular customer. A collector in St. Carmen who trusts only Macon with it.
This is what he does most of the time now. He runs the business side of our landscaping and pool-cleaning services, but he rarely leaves the house to do it. Army is the boss everyone sees. He’s a lot easier for people to talk to. Macon hasn’t crossed the tracks in months. And before that, very rarely.
I close the door and walk down the three steps, as Dallas passes the open garage with the day’s cooler he just filled up with the hose. I hear the tailgate of the truck fall open, and Dex’s cry as Army carries him down the street to the babysitter.
Macon’s phone rings, and I dart my eyes between him and his cell that he’s pretending isn’t there. A half-empty bottle of bourbon sits on top of the toolbox behind him.
I square my shoulders. “The developers are going to come whether you answer that phone or not.”
He doesn’t look up.
I step closer, wiping the sweat off the back of my neck. “Look, I found some issues with Krisjen’s car,” I tell him. “I’m going to stick around here today and work on it.”
“No, you’re not,” he says, still twisting the wrench. “We need you on the job.”
“They’ll be fine without me.”
He tightens the bolt, the muscles in his arm flexing enough that I almost take a step back.
“So it’s not bad enough you’re leaving me shorthanded for three years,” he says, “but you can’t even pull your weight until you go?”
“I have eight more days of freedom I’d like to enjoy.”
He looks up. “Oh, you had your fun,” he points out. “Losing your freedom was the price, remember?” He tosses the tool down and turns, digging in a drawer and pulling out some needle-nose pliers. “Tell her to take it to a mechanic in St. Carmen. She’s not wasting our time just because you think you’re going to get laid.” And then he stops again, scowling. “And I’m sick of these girls hanging around. You understand? At least Aracely pulls her fucking weight. Y’all stop bringing them home.”