Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 122097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Amon and I don’t come from money like that, so we’ve been living frugally and saved nearly every penny from the last four years to chip in our share.
The last guy in the group is Ryan Desoto. Italian as they come. Probably a Mob background, since he’s from Newark and all his cousins have colorful names like Tony ‘Two Toes’ Russo and Ivano ‘Ice Pick’ Bianchi.
I’ve never been a hundred percent sure if the stories he tells are true or not. They’re so far-fetched. But then again, he’s Ryan ‘One Shot, One Kill’ Desoto, so why wouldn’t the rest of his family be as crazy as he is?
He didn’t save up for his share of the business, either. He called his uncle—Bosco ‘Bang Bang’ Bianchi—and the money was delivered in person, in cash, one week later. It was a pain in the ass, that cash. I had to launder that shit just in case it got traced back to us down the line.
When I get to the church and check the semi-truck—also recently acquired—I see that it’s already been mostly unloaded.
To be honest, the church is what sealed the deal for this place. It’s pretty nice as far as churches go—really great woodwork, dark-gray slate floors, and stained glass to die for—but the reason we all fell in love with the church was the bunker underneath it.
The Cold War was still a thing when this church was built. People took that whole threat seriously. With three-foot concrete walls, steel doors fit for a bank vault, and a mostly outdated air filtration system, the basement of this church could probably withstand a nuclear bomb.
We’re just gonna use it as a munitions depot, so to us, it was better than perfect.
Nash greets me first. His grin is wide and his eyes lit up like he’s about to get into a firefight. “Did you see that first house? I called it.”
I saw the pics online, and yeah, the first house—the one closest to the road—really is the nicest of the bunch. I don’t really care which one I live in. In fact, I’m kinda hoping I can room with Amon for a while. And anyway, Nash is a rich fuck, so whatever. If he needs all the creature comforts to feel whole, he can have them.
I know Amon doesn’t care either. And I’m sure Nash and Ryan have already sorted it out, because Ryan walks up behind him and doesn’t object. So I say, “It’s yours, dude. You’ve earned it.”
Nash lets out a breath, then nods at me, getting my meaning. “Anyway.” He points to a door that leads to some stairs. “The bunker’s through there. Wanna take a look?”
Again, I’ve seen the pics online, but this actually does interest me. So I wave a hand for him to lead the way and follow him down.
“Good morning, peaches!” I look up from my computer at the front counter of McBooms to find Rosie Harlow breezing in. She stops in front of me and scowls. “What are you doing here? It’s the Day After.”
I sigh, then spin the vintage barstool I’m sitting on so that I’m looking out the front window—past the brightly painted letters that say ‘McBooms’ in a huge varsity font, orange and yellow with a thick shadow of brown—it’s such a great vintage combination—and then let out a long exhale.
Rosie drops her giant leather purse onto the counter. “Don’t bother, I already know.”
I spin back to face her. “You already know what?”
“About Collin, peaches.” I roll my eyes and she grins, because that’s what Collin called me all through high school while we dated. “Yep. Collin. And you.” She grins bigger. “And Amon.”
I knew this. Bryn told me she saw him.
Rosie rests her elbow on the counter, cupping her chin as she continues to grin. With a perfectly heart-shaped face, she’s the definition of cute. Kinda short, a little bit skinny, long, straight, dark brown hair, and the grayest eyes you’ve ever seen. It’s really hard to look at anything else when she’s staring you in the face. She’s Valerie Bertinelli circa 1976, complete with bell bottoms and red-checked flannel over a tight black tank top. She’s a walking billboard for McBooms because everything she’s wearing right now came from my store. Even the chunky platform sandals, which are totally impractical since it’s really not sandal weather, but practical has never been Rosie’s middle name.
She got pregnant in tenth grade and is the proud mama to a twelve-year-old boy called Cross. Not an uncommon pathway for girls who grow up in West Virginia, but Disciple isn’t just any old Appalachian town. It’s got a special relationship with God, and if you want to call it culty, that works just fine. No one minds because all of us, every single one of us, is descended from the sanctimonious town founders.