Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
I know why we did it. I'm aware enough to know that it had to be done, but that still doesn't stop the guilt from threatening to eat me alive.
I haven't gone to sleep. I've spent hours alternating between pacing back and forth in this ridiculously tiny fucking room and sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to figure out exactly what I did wrong in life to land myself here.
I haven't even attempted to sleep. Even if I wasn't reeling from the events of the night, the memory of the kiss we shared wouldn't have allowed it to happen.
That kiss.
The very first kiss.
The whole thing is bothering me, but not in the way I would imagine. I'm less peeved that we actually kissed than I am that I walked away from him.
I can imagine what could've happened if I hadn't taken a step back and walked in here. In fact, I've grown frustrated in the past few hours, thinking about exactly what could happen between the two of us.
Shockingly, there's no voice whispering in the back of my mind that even having those thoughts is wrong. I can't hear my mother preaching to me about what's expected from a Jenkins, and having any sort of sexual or romantic relationship with another man would disgrace the family.
It's the silence that's doing more damage than the voice I usually hear because I have no idea what it means. As much as I've fought the training my parents instilled in me, their expectations have always been the loudest in my head, no matter how much I try to silence them.
Needing a wider area to pace, I leave my room, the sound of the shower going in the shared bathroom almost like a magnet, the pull urging me to go in that direction rather than right out the front door.
Somehow, I manage to fight long enough that seconds later, I'm pulling in deep calming breaths, the cold mountain air filling my lungs and washing away some of the guilt from last night.
I lift my nose to the sky, eyes closed, as I pull in and exhale a few more breaths. If only clearing away all the bad things in life were really this easy.
I walk toward the truck, eyeballing the narrow driveway and mentally planning a route for my outdoor pacing, when I notice one of the neighbors walking toward their mailbox. I promptly turn around and head back toward the house. Even learning their names isn't on my list of shit to do while working this fucking job.
Movement catches my eye, and I feel like a fool for not having noticed the piece of paper taped to the door, the loose end waving in the breeze.
I know it's from someone in The League without having to look at the barely legible writing.
It simply has an address and time on it. Nothing more, nothing less.
I have no idea when the note was left or who from the group left it. I don't know if we'll make it out of the meeting alive. Bobby could've easily told them all sorts of shit if he thought he was going to be in trouble for getting high and passing out. I doubt the man has any moral high ground, whether it's toward himself or others.
What I do know is that we can't not go. This meeting is exactly why we're here, and not wanting to go has nothing to do with being scared. I know there's a chance I'll die every single time I leave the safety of any location I'm at to go to work, that there's a chance I won't make it home. I decided long ago that dying might be a sacrifice I had to pay eventually, and I've never let the fear of it stop me from doing a job. I sure as hell won't start today.
I step back into the house, note clutched in my hand. I had every intention of calling out to him, but the steam from his shower, swirling through the small living room, envelops me. The scent of his body wash threatens to coat my skin in a way I don't hate, even though I know I should at least be hesitant about anything that involves that man.
I cross the room, ready to speak up, to be the voice I no longer hear in my head that what we've done is wrong and we can't do it again.
But instead of shoving open his bedroom door and issuing my demands, I press my forehead to the cool wood, pulling in two short breaths and turning the doorknob slowly.
I don't know what I expected to find.
I know he just got out of the shower. The humidity is still hanging heavy in the air, but I'm frozen standing in his open doorway, eyes locked on his glistening pecks, mouth dropping open half an inch when he adjusts the towel around his waist.