Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“Sir…you can’t touch those.” The woman practically pulls the blanket from my hands. I glance across the aisle at another customer, clearly fondling bedsheets, her fingers wedged under the plastic wrapping around the sheets.
I never should have done this to myself. It took me two hours to force myself to get in my truck and drive across town to this bed and bath store, and I was right to think it was a mistake.
“I’m only trying to find a soft one,” I say.
She cringes at the sound of my voice.”Well, you can’t stand here and touch them all. It’s completely unsanitary.”
I point to the other customer, who’s trying desperately to ignore me. “She’s fucking touching them,” I growl, not giving a shit how I sound now.
The saleswoman gasps. “Excuse me, but you can’t speak to me that way. I’ll call security and have you thrown out.”
“For what? Molesting blankets?”
Her eyes flit across the scars on my face then down to my throat, my arm, and my hand. I should have put my leather jacket on, but I left it in the car because stressing out about coming in here was making me hot and sweaty.
Another salesgirl comes rushing over, this one younger, with an apologetic smile. Her hair is dyed jet black, and a small silver hoop hangs from her nose. “Why don’t you go work the register, Helen. I’ll help this customer find what he needs.”
Helen glares at me and walks away, taking the blanket I was holding with her like she just saved it from a life of misery.
The new girl makes a pained face. “I’m so sorry about that. She’s just a rude old bitch,” she says under her breath. “Can I help you with anything? Are you looking for a certain size, color, or fabric?”
Why does everything have to be so difficult and come with so many choices? “It has to be the softest. It’s a gift for someone special.”
“Everyone touches them,” she whispers, glancing at her bitchy coworker, who’s still looking at me as if I’m Satan himself, sent here from hell to corrupt all the angelic blankets. “I’ve touched most of these myself. These over here are the softest…we have chenille, fleece, flannel, down.” I follow her down the aisle as she points to each one, and she waits patiently while I feel each of them, trying to pick the one Holly will love the most. I debate just buying one of each so I can get out of here faster.
“You’re Tanner’s brother, right?” Her brown eyes squint at me, tiny wrinkles forming in the corners and across the bridge of her nose.
“One of them.”
“I went to school with him. You’re the one who saved that girl in the woods.”
I nod uncomfortably and put two blankets off to the side. Chenille mink seems to be the winner.
“He was my uncle.”
I throw her a quizzical look.
“The man you killed.”
I knew this day would come eventually. That pig had a wife and kids who, best as I know, still live here. And, apparently, a niece. I can’t walk across this town without tripping over someone who either knows me, knows what happened to me, or knows what I did.
I finger a blindingly white down comforter. “I’m not gonna apologize.”
“I don’t expect you to,” she replies quickly. “You did the world a huge favor.”
I don’t want to know if this girl helping me pick out blankets is another of his victims, or maybe someone he groped at family parties or exposed himself to, or who the hell knows what other kind of sick shit he did. The less I know about the man I killed, the better off I’ll be.
I grab two of the softest throw blankets in the biggest sizes. “I did what I had to do,” I say gruffly. “Thanks for your help.”
An hour later I’ve got Holly in the passenger seat of my truck, two of the softest and most expensive blankets the store had are hidden behind my seat in a huge plastic bag, and we’re on our way to my house.
Almost every day, we go straight to my workshop. I have no idea why she likes watching me work, but she does. She loves to clean and polish everything: the rings and buckles I make and my hammers, screwdrivers, and wrenches. I must have the shiniest, cleanest tools in the world. Today I ask her to come inside for a few minutes before heading to the workshop.
At first, she hesitates at my request, which isn’t unusual, and then she follows me into the house.
“Close your eyes,” I say when we get inside. Instead, her complexion pales, and her eyes dart skittishly to the door.
“Ty…why…”
“Shit,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I gently touch her arm. “Don’t be scared…I just wanted to surprise you.” I don’t know all her triggers yet—I have to learn them as I step on them, which causes a lot of moments just like this one. I hold the bag out to her. “This is for you.”