Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
“Promise?”
“I swear it.” He sticks out his pinky.
I wrap mine around his, squeezing so hard my hand shakes. After I kiss our tangled fingers, he leans in to kiss them, too, locking the promise in place.
“Okay, now I need you to put your fingers in your ears.” He stands and walks to the door. “Do not move them until I come back.”
I shove my fingers in as deep as they’ll go and clamp my elbows to my ribs. The world goes muffled, then completely quiet. My breath is loud in my skull. My heart, too.
The knife sits on my lap like he left it.
I don’t know how long he’s gone. A minute. Ten. Forever. Time feels strange when he’s not in the room, but I’m not scared anymore.
He’s here. I’m safe now. He said so with his eyes before he stepped into the hall.
The door opens again.
I don’t move my fingers until he taps my wrist. He holds a balled-up shirt and uses it to wipe his hands. It’s bloody, soaked through, dark and sticky, smearing across his knuckles. There’s so much blood my stomach turns, but I’m not scared of that, either.
I’m only scared the blood might be his.
His knuckles are split open like whenever he hits something too hard, too many times.
“Dean won’t hurt me again, will he?”
“No.” His eyes flash like fire, warming me on the inside. “Never again.”
He slings on his backpack, and I throw myself against his chest, hugging his hard middle. His arms hug me, too, lifting me and the trash bag.
“What about Little Jag?” I point at my only toy.
He swings around, staring at it, his face pinching before smoothing out again.
“You don’t need it.” He kisses my nose. “You have me.”
“Okay.”
I give Little Jag a wave goodbye as the real Jag carries me out the window and takes me to where he sleeps.
It’s not far, under the freeway bridge, deep enough that rain doesn’t hit. He has a tent now. A real tent, with a zippered door and everything.
I miss the cardboard fort, but he says the tent is easier to move.
Inside, a tiny lantern sits beside a pile of blankets. There’s plenty of room until he slips in. He takes up all the space.
His backpack goes in the corner, and my trash bag beside it. He gives me crackers, a squished granola bar, and half a soda. I eat even though my throat is sore from crying.
“You got taller.” He puts his hand on my head, where it brushes the ceiling of the tent. “And your hair’s longer. All the way down your back now.”
“Yours, too.”
“Yeah.” He fingers the curly ends where they sit on his shoulders. “Guess so.”
“And this.” I drag my fingertips across the pale prickles on his cheek, laughing at the scratchiness. “You have a beard!”
“Just a little fuzz.” He ducks his head, almost shy, which is strange because Jag isn’t shy about anything.
“Do you have to shave it like Dad?”
“Not yet.” He taps my hip. “Turn around.”
I shift on the blankets, scooting to sit between his bent knees with my back to his chest. The tent is so small our legs fold in weird angles.
“Why don’t you have a house?” I ask.
His huff caresses the top of my head. “I can’t even get an apartment.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have credit. Can’t use my real name. I’ve killed a lot of bad people. I need to live close to your foster home and be able to pack up and move on the fly. Besides, I sleep with you most nights.”
He lifts my hair off my shoulders and smooths out the tangles, careful not to pull where my scalp still hurts. When the strands are separated, he begins to braid, threading the pieces better than I can.
I don’t care about the blood trapped under his nails.
I don’t care if we live in a box or a tent.
I only care about the big, strong hands in my hair.
“We’ll have to leave by morning,” he says.
I knew that already. “Where are we going next?”
“Texas, I think. It’s warmer there.”
The thought of traveling with him again, hitchhiking, hiding behind dumpsters, and sleeping in abandoned places should scare me. But it doesn’t.
It’s freedom.
It’s us.
I wish we could go back to California and see the cemetery. I haven’t been there. Ever. Jag says it’s too dangerous.
“Tell me about Mom and Dad.” I pat his knee, feeling the sudden stiffness there. “I can’t picture them right anymore. I used to. But it’s blurry.”
“Dad had curly brown hair.” His voice is choppy, like there are knives in his mouth. “He worked with his hands. An electrician. And he was good with computers. He smiled a lot.”
I close my eyes, trying to remember.
“Celeste, our mom…” He clears his throat. “She was pretty, almost as pretty as you.”
My cheeks burn.