Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29494 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29494 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
It's a foolish notion, given that we were both teenagers at the time. He was merely trying to make sure he and his sister had food on the table and a roof over their heads. The two of them were a team. I wish I had that.
One of the reasons Mick and I had bonded so quickly was because of our shared anger with our mothers. He was my person, though I’m not sure he ever knew that. I always tried to play it cool with him and keep him at arm's length.
When so many people who are supposed to love you hurt you, it’s hard to trust someone who could just choose to do so. The concept itself strikes me as absurd. Yet somehow Mick had still managed to make his way past all of my walls and wiggle his way into my heart.
When he was in the city, I felt safer, knowing he was only a call away. I hate that I don’t have that anymore. I feel so alone. I should be used to it, but I’d gotten a glimpse of what it was like not to feel that way, and now the loneliness feels a thousand times worse than it used to.
Anytime I used to call, Mick would answer. It didn’t matter whether it was night or day. I think he saw me as a little sister he was supposed to protect. The same way he looked out for his older sister too. However, I never saw him as a brother.
My phone goes off, making me jump.
“Get it together,” I mutter to myself.
When I check it, I see it’s one of the places I do deliveries for, asking if I can come in for a few hours. I let them know I'll be right in before getting my crap together. Work will take my mind off all this other bullshit.
“I’m headed—” I cut myself off from shouting down the hallway to my dad that I’m headed to work.
A lump forms in my throat. Even after six months, I still struggle to remember his death. He was not the best father, but he had his moments. I shake off the sadness and head out, holding my mace tight in my hand as I take the stairs down and out of the building.
“Hey, Jo,” Carl calls when I enter the back of the Bold Bite sub shop, which is a few blocks from my place.
“Hey.” I nod back, making my way to the rack of orders awaiting pickup. I go through them and decide which route is best.
“You okay?” Carl comes to stand next to me. He’s owned the place for a few decades.
“I’m good.” I force a smile.
“You’re a shit liar.” He gives me a stern stare, but the bell rings.
“No time for small talk today, Carl.” I grab the bags.
“I got a feeling this isn’t small.”
“Seriously, I’m fine.”
“Ha!” Carl barks a laugh. “I’m married, Jo. Fine never means that.”
“I’m peachy?” I brighten my smile. He softens some at that.
“We’ll talk later.”
“Sure,” I lie, because I’m so not doing that. The bell goes off again. Carl huffs but gets back to work.
I take a deep breath of my own, gathering my shit together. I cannot afford to lose it. But then again, I never really could.
Chapter Three
MICK
Asharp pain shoots down my side as I twist the knob to my apartment door. Even though training had gotten cut short and I spent the last two hours at a walk-in clinic, I’m tired. It’s not a physical thing. Most of that time was spent in the waiting room, and only about five minutes with the physician’s assistant who said I had bruised ribs. I could’ve given myself that diagnosis. Despite my condition, I could go a few more rounds in the ring. Mentally I’m not all there, which is why I lost concentration and took the hard punch to my side.
The toe of my boot hits a cardboard box that I don’t remember being there when I left this morning. It was four in the morning and I barely had my eyes open, so it’s possible I missed it. I don’t remember ordering anything. Another sign of my declining mental state. I’m barely twenty, but I’m acting like a geriatric at the end stages.
The box is surprisingly heavy. I carry it over to the small dining room table and take a look at the labeling. Fragile. This side up.
The sender is ModHouse, which I’ve never heard of. With the sharp side of my car key, I score the tape and rip it open to find a computer-generated note inside.
Pedro said that you got injured and would be out of commission for a few days. I don’t think you’ve done much with your apartment. The last time we zoomed it looked pretty bare, more like an institutional cell than a living space. Maybe the lights from this will at least brighten your space.