Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 123672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Shit. Maybe I need to pull away from Alex until this goes away. It’s only been two weeks since I lost Crew. I can’t lose Alex too. I’m not strong enough to withstand that kind of devastation again so soon.
The same bunch of haunting thoughts circle my mind all day long, and before I know it, it’s the end of the day, and I watch Big Jim scoop up a pile of papers—applications for all the artists who are hoping to replace Crew. “You ready to get out of here, kid?” Big Jim asks as my pencil hovers over my sketchbook, starting and re-starting the same design over and over again, unable to focus.
My lips press into a tight line, cringing as the thought of going back home leaves my hands shaking. “I, umm . . . I might just hang out here for a little bit,” I tell him. “I’ve got a few designs I need to nail down for next week, and if I go home, I’m going to end up binging Sons of Anarchy and I’ll never get anything done.”
Big Jim watches me for a moment, his gaze calculating, suspicious because I’m usually the first to want to get out of here at the end of a long day. “You sure? I could give you a ride.”
“No, really. I’m alright. I’ll only be an hour or so.”
He lets out a heavy breath, still a little unsure before finally nodding. “Alright. Be safe. You know the cops still haven’t caught the asshole who attacked Crew, so if you see anything or even feel a little unsafe, take off. Don’t hang around to see what’s going on. We can replace things, but we can’t replace you.”
A fond smile settles on my lips. “Thanks, but I’ll be good,” I tell him.
“Alright. Call me if you need anything,” he says, reaching for the front door, the papers piled high in his arms. “And don’t forget to lock up.”
“You got it,” I say, and with that, he pulls the door open and slips out into the night, and I can’t help but hurry after him to pull the door closed and deadbolt it. I turn out the lights for the front of the shop before turning off the little OPEN sign that sits in the front window.
Heading back to my station, I drop down at my table and focus my attention back on my sketchpad while trying to clear my mind. I listen to the busy Brooklyn night, to the Harleys coming and going up the street, the drunken idiots passing by, and the busker trying to make a dollar with nothing more than his voice, a bucket, and a pair of drumsticks. At least, I assume they’re drumsticks. Otherwise he probably just pulled a few branches off a nearby tree. Can’t lie though, he’s pretty good.
When the clock ticks close to midnight, I put my pencil down and decide it’s time to give up. I’m sure by this point, my creepy new friend has already come and gone and is probably pissed off that I’m not tucked in my bed for him to play his fucked-up little games. But there’s no denying that I can still taste him on my tongue, and I hate that I want so much more.
Packing up my station, I hurry through my sanitizing routine, making sure everything is perfect for the next day. Then making my way into the back, I double-check the doors and windows are locked before turning out the lights and making my way back to the lobby.
Digging in my bag, I find my keys, and after glancing back into the shop to make sure I’ve done everything right, I finally push out into the night, a yawn tearing out of me. Pulling the door closed behind me, I shove the key in the lock, and just as I crouch down to lock the floor deadbolt into place, a shadow looms over me.
I gasp, throwing myself back up as I twirl around, and for a moment, I think I’m seeing the ghost of Crew standing right in front of me. My jaw drops, and I suck in a breath, my heart racing, but as he creeps a little closer, I realize that this isn’t quite the friend I once knew.
It’s Crew’s face, but older. Fewer tattoos and not quite as built.
I wonder if this is the mysterious brother I never knew he had.
“You Kyah?” he grunts, his tone deeper than Crew’s but still somehow so familiar.
An ache settles deep in my chest, and I have to keep myself from reaching out to him. “You look just like him,” I breathe, trying to remind myself that in the end, Crew was an asshole and doesn’t deserve my pain. I shouldn’t miss him like this, but goddamn it, I miss him more than ever.