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)
I know it’s easy to assume that the whole thing from top to bottom was a fiction. His showmanship, fainting women in the crowd, the whole ‘amen’ thing.
But there are people who come regular. People not from Disciple. Like it’s an ordinary church or something. And it’s meaningful to them.
It meant something to me too. It meant a lot to me, actually.
I was the Revival. An honest-to-God son of it. And yeah, everyone in Disciple is part of the Revival. We’re all descendants of the original organizers, but I come from a long line of tent preachers and even though that was never gonna be my future, the tent had always been my sanctuary.
It grounded me. Helped me be good.
That was then, though. This is now. And these two whens have almost nothing in common.
Three scouts had come to see me play ball junior year. Two full scholarships were offered in the fall of senior year. I was gonna play for Ohio State. I was gonna major in business—not so I could climb some corporate ladder, but so that, once the football career was over, I could start my own business. Make my own way.
I guess that part’s still true. I do have my own business and I certainly have made my own way through this shitty world.
But so many things are different. My family used to love me. They used to be proud of me. My sister and girlfriend didn’t look at me like I was a murderer.
But I am a murderer.
I murdered that guy who thought he could touch my sister. Scare her, and my girlfriend, and me. And the moment that bullet hit him, everything I ever was just… stopped.
And the moment after, I was this guy right here.
Before we eat, we drink. Four little stainless-steel canisters with twist-off caps are lined up on the porch railing. The smoothies are not quite cold, but it doesn’t matter. We drink them anyway. We don’t really have a choice.
I’m quiet as we eat, but the guys are so busy talking shop, they don’t even notice this about me. Nash is in charge of renovations. We need every one of these houses fit for livin’ in before the rest of the guys get here in June. We’re about six weeks out, so it’s gonna be tight. Nash is ticking off all the people he’s gonna need as Amon holds his burger in one hand while jotting down notes in the other. He’s in charge of the hiring since he’s local and, unlike me, charismatic. Which is kind of ironic considering who my daddy is.
Ryan is in charge of heavy machinery. We have a good place picked out for the shooting range in one of the valleys, but it needs some dirt work done to make it safe, not to mention a proper road leading out there.
I’m the business end. I take meetings, make calls, and do the interviewing for the new hires. And I’m not talking about the locals, obviously.
It took us forever to agree on a name for the company since we’re all equal partners, but finally Amon suggested Disciple’s Edge. I didn’t want Disciple in the name, so I said no. And then we tossed around about a dozen other contenders, but in the end, we met halfway and stuck with Edge.
Edge Security.
I don’t know what Lowyn is thinking about our choice of location, but there’s a very good reason behind it. Lots of them, actually. Number one is the close proximity to DC. Number two is the gun regulations. West Virginia is firearm-friendly. Not that we don’t have all the fuckin’ permits, but it’s just easier to work here than it would be in Virginia, Maryland, or, fuck’s sake, DC.
I personally find it hilarious that all the politicians up there on Capitol Hill hate the guns but want people like us around them twenty-four seven for protection. The hypocrisy is jaw-dropping.
But hey, their personal philosophy is none of my business as long as they pay the bill every month.
And actually, it’s only one asshole that we need to deal with. Charlie Beaufort is what’s called a ‘staffer’ for the government. He’s never been elected, never made any campaign promises, and gives absolutely zero fucks about anyone not on his payroll. He’s not my boss, but he’s the closest thing I have to one because all the security contracts for the government go through him.
Maybe one day, once we’re all settled in, we won’t need the government contracts. But that day is not today, so whatever. Charlie says bark, I’ll give him a growl if it keeps the money flowing.
I’m just about to turn in—the guys having gone back to their own houses long ago—when my phone starts buzzing across the floor next to my sleeping bag.
It’s only about nine, but still. I hate when people call me. Especially this guy. “What’s up, Charlie?”