Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
When I left home for good, I led a very happy and fulfilled life. My morals and personality were thankfully molded by teammates, coaches, and host families. Those were the bonds that I cherished beyond measure.
The only evidence that any part of my father resides within me is that since the crash, my body has apparently called forth the asshole DNA, and I behave more like my father than myself.
I should hang up on him and not give him an ounce of relief. I’m sure he and my mother are terrified I’ll make the news again from this arrest in New York.
But frankly, I’m tired of fighting. I’ve left the Titans behind, and I’m going to leave my parents behind too. I don’t have the bandwidth anymore.
“I’ve already handled it,” I advise my father. “I hired an attorney, and the charges were dropped.”
“Oh,” my dad says in a tone of shock. “Well… that’s very… mature of you. I hadn’t expected—”
“Of course you didn’t,” I cut him off. He doesn’t know how to pay a true compliment or show pride, which is ironic because he used to love dropping my name to everyone who’d listen when I was a hot hockey star. He’s been severely disappointed—and that was straight from his mouth—since I got suspended.
“Listen,” he says stiffly, “I’ve got an appointment I need to get to, but your mother and I will be attending a fundraiser in Pittsburgh next month. Perhaps we can get together for dinner.”
“I’m not in Pittsburgh.”
“Where are you?” he asks.
“Not in Pittsburgh. Is there anything else you need?”
“I guess not,” he clips out. “As long as the charges were dropped, that’s all I care about.”
That was a targeted blow, and I let it bounce off. “Yes, I know,” I reply softly.
And then I hang up.
Standing, I stretch and arch my back, grimacing at the tiny pops in my spine. The mattress on this bed sucks, and while I’ve ordered a new one, until it arrives, I’m going to be creaky.
I pull on a T-shirt and pair of shorts and head into the kitchen to make coffee. It feels good not having a set agenda.
No responsibilities or places to be at a certain time.
My plans for today are to dig out all the bushes along the front of the house since half of them are dead. I don’t know what I’ll put in their place—maybe nothing—but I like the physical exertion.
I might go for a run on the trails later, and I wonder if I’ll run into the hellcat neighbor.
Part of me hopes I do.
I enjoyed her showing up on my doorstep yesterday, attempting to figure out a way around my injunction. At first, she was pathetically cute, but then she got all fiery and wouldn’t—no, wait… couldn’t—be cowed. I tried my best to scare her away, and she just puffed up her chest and stared me down.
It was impressive and sincerely the most excitement I’ve had since moving here.
Admittedly, she has me intrigued. Pissed, obviously, but she’s kind of hot.
In an odd way.
I reach the coffee pot and glance through the kitchen window before pulling the carafe out to fill with water.
I do a double take as my head whips back that way, my jaw agape as I take in my backyard.
Releasing the carafe, I move to the sliding door that leads out to the deck, sure that I’m not seeing things correctly through the window, only to be brought up short.
On my deck are hundreds of shelled peanuts scattered around—and the whole area is crawling with rodents. Squirrels and chipmunks happily skirt around each other as they stuff nuts into their mouths and run off, only to be replaced by more critters.
Around the deck railing are several trays of birdseed, and all manner of winged creatures are landing to eat. A lot of seed has fallen to the deck, and there’s bird shit everywhere.
And fuck… a pair of raccoons are at the bottom of the steps eating something out of a plastic dish that looks a lot like dog food.
Farther into the backyard are probably fifteen deer with heads bent to the ground, and as I stare harder, it looks like they’re gathered around blocks of salt or piles of some type of food.
And beyond that, maybe five yards into the tree line, are dozens of brightly painted bird feeders hanging from branches. And when I say bright, I mean neon colors. Birds fly in and out, battling for perches, and several are on the ground, pecking at fallen seed.
My backyard looks like a fucking zoo.
“Jesus,” I grumble, shoving my feet into the boots sitting nearby. I sling open the door, expecting the noise to scare away all the deck varmints. It merely causes the squirrels and chipmunks to scamper a few feet from me. The birds ruffle and launch into the air, but then they land again just as quickly.