Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27378 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27378 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
He headed into the grocery store, the cool air washing over him as soon as he stepped inside. Despite being high in the mountains and the temperature far less stifling than if he were in the city, it was uncharacteristically hot this time of year. He sensed a storm coming, the air humid and thick, the scent of rain hinting in the air.
He went through the store quickly, just wanting to get the fuck out of there. He got cases of beer, bottles of liquor—you know, the important shit.
He grabbed nonperishable items, a large bag of potatoes, onions, and some jugs of water. There was a well at the cabin, but he hadn’t checked to see if things were still working properly, so to be on the safe side, he’d buy some gallons from the store. He’d get the meat from the butcher, hell, maybe even smoke some. He tossed in canned goods, junk food, and a few frozen items for when he was too hungover to cook.
He didn’t know when he’d leave the cabin, so he’d busy himself with drinking and fixing shit.
Once he checked out and paid, he threw the bags in the back of his truck and headed over to Bernadette's. The bell above the door dinged as he entered, and instantly he smelled the scent of food frying. Although the diner was small, and the town was as intimate as you’d imagine a mountain community to be, the inside of the diner was already packed with the dinner rush.
He made his way up to the front counter and took a seat at the only empty spot, braced his forearms on the aged and worn linoleum countertop, and waited to be served. He looked around, recognizing a couple of the older customers, ones he’d seen over the years. And although he made this town his home just as much as he had Reckless, he wasn’t up here enough to really be friendly with anyone.
And that’s how he liked it. He was one antisocial motherfucker.
“Hey, darlin’,” the waitress said, her nametag showing she was Patricia. She was a middle-aged woman with wrinkles around her eyes and a gap between her teeth.
He gave her a small smile he knew didn’t reach his eyes and placed his order. When she left, he went back to looking around the diner, ready to leave, because he was starting to feel claustrophobic with the thick push of bodies and the chatter surrounding him.
Scars never claimed to be a good guy, wouldn’t be called a gentle heart or a kind soul. Although he laid his life down for anyone he cared about, would do anything for the people he called family—blood or not—anyone else wasn’t even on his radar. So being in this diner had his skin tightening, his pulse increasing slightly. He rubbed the back of his neck and faced forward, staring at the pie display, his jaw locked tight. He bounced his leg, becoming agitated.
He watched an older couple eating at one of the booths, the man starting to argue with the woman before she said something that shut him up. Scars let his gaze fall on another man sitting at the counter, his shirt stained with sweat, his hands dirty from no doubt doing manual labor all day.
That’s how a lot of the men and women here were. The mountain town was a working community, it’s main reputation for their lumber distribution throughout the state.
He continued to look around the diner and was about to glance back at the counter, when a lone woman sitting at the farthest table in the corner caught his attention. She was tiny, with a mane of dark-brown hair, almost black in its color, tucked under a baseball cap and shielding her on either side like a curtain. She had a roadmap spread out on the table in front of her, a cup of what he assumed was coffee beside that, and opposite the mug was a slice of half-eaten pie.
She was bouncing her leg under the table, pulled at her bottom lip with her teeth, and kept glancing up at the door every time the bell warned of a new person entering.
The nervousness coming from her was tangible, and for some reason, Scars found his protectiveness rising up. She was afraid of something or someone, and although he considered himself a bastard to almost everyone, he had a soft spot for making sure women and children were protected. He liked to think his daughter brought that out in him, made him more human in that regard.
She pulled her baseball cap down lower, shielding her eyes from him. He didn’t like that something had clearly spooked her, but he also didn’t like that he got like this and didn’t even know her.
He looked away from her, staring down at the cup of coffee the waitress had set in front of him. He came to the cabin to concentrate on other things, mainly himself and trying to clear his head. But the more he tried to think about those things, the more the woman sitting across the diner pulled his focus.