Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Sadness and fury.
The very things that fill my veins when Drew speaks.
“The bar… it’s… bad.”
No…
When they said the bar was “bad,” I must have assumed they meant it was vandalized, that the windows were busted and the walls were spray-painted, maybe even the sign shattered and hanging from its place above the door.
I never expected the sight before me.
The windows are busted, yes, the bars barricading them bent a bit, but the giant steel door, swinging wide open in the daylight, the giant chain lock cut and hanging to the ground should have been my first clue it was much, much worse.
It is.
Glass crunches beneath my feet as I follow Crew inside the building, and my eyes shoot wide, my nostrils instantly brimming with the overpowering stench of alcohol.
Gone are the tables that created the lounge, each one having been chopped into nothing but piles of wood, the splintered pieces perfectly arranged as you would a campfire, pointed to a tip, rags and napkins stuffed between them. There are small char marks staining the ends as if they planned to burn it down but didn’t… or wanted the threat of the capability of doing so to be clear. Possibly a twisted gift to light it up and put it out, showing mercy by leaving it standing.
The back wall, where the bar once was… gone. Chopped and added to the piles, perhaps?
Busted bottles are splayed along each and every wall, deep puddles of their contents pooled at the edges. The mirror, nothing but shattered pieces, the new shelves and lights Crew put up nowhere to be found. Electrical cords hang from wide-open gaps in the ceiling, revealing the chipped and dented foundation behind it, a large pipe sticking down where the largest fan used to be.
The walls are no longer walls, but a mess of drywall hanging from the frame, a sledgehammer or worse having torn them to shreds. Water drips from the stairs along the back wall, slowly seeping into the mess surrounding us.
I can’t even bring myself to look at Crew, so when something crashes to the floor near us, and Julius grips my arm, I allow him to lead me out the door, on Crew’s silent demand, I’m sure.
Outside, I pull in a deep breath, walking a few feet away, my hands folding over my head, only to slide down my face.
My palms shake, or maybe it’s my body that’s shaking, but when Julius tries to offer support with a hand to my back, I step away from it, posing a tight smile.
There’s only one man who can comfort me right now, but he’s the one who will be in need of said comfort after this.
What happened here?
Was it the man—men—from last night?
Someone else?
Is this Memphis’s fault?
Don’t allow the blinders to go back up, Davis…
I run my hands through my hair, flipping it to the side.
How—
My eyes catch a hint of color, and I jerk left, bending to pick a small card off the curb. A business card. My head snaps up to find another, and then another.
I pick up twenty in total, all piled high, dirty, and wet in my palm, but it’s the car on the front that flashes in my memory—a black El Camino, candy-painted and shining off the thick paper.
The same one from the parking lot the night X dropped me off, but that’s not all.
This card, it’s the one the man at the market gave Crew, the “lover of pretty things” man. The same man who sat behind the wheel of said black car.
Crew bounds from the door right then, his head whipping right to left, until his eyes meet mine. While his body visibly releases some of the tension it holds once he’s found me safe and sound and near his friends, it’s nowhere near enough to erase the rage building within him.
His eyes are wild, his body seeming to vibrate as he yanks me to him, only seconds after I stuff the cards in my back pocket.
I don’t want him to get hurt by hunting the man they belong to, but something tells me he won’t have to.
Crew
Numb.
Enraged.
Accepting.
If someone claimed a person could experience all three of those things at once, I’d call them a liar. But I’d be wrong.
Pathetically wrong.
I’m fucking consumed by all three, my muscles weightless and airy, my heart and head steady, my skin hot and prickly.
Part of me wants to laugh at what I’ll do to the fucker who did this to me, and another wants to run and hide, knowing it won’t be easy to stomach. An ugly fucking sight I might savor.
My jaw aches from clenching it so tightly, my palms slick with sweat from my clenched fists. I’m trying to keep some semblance of calm, so I don’t scare the silent and still woman in the back seat, but it’s easier said than done.