Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I’m disgusting like that.
Cars fly over the city bridge. Close enough to the city but far enough away that it doesn’t disrupt the general public. Christchurch could be beautiful if it’s looked at through a different set of eyes. Unfortunately, all mine have seen is gore, violence, and sex.
Living on the street isn’t so bad. Beats hearing my parents fuck all day every day and burn their meth pipe like it’s gonna fix their lives. I don’t even remember what they were like before meth took them. It was the only version of them I ever knew. It did me good. I taught myself how to fight pretty early on, thank fuck, since these streets would eat me up if I didn’t.
“Hey, shithead!” Tippy calls out from his tent, right beneath the bottom pillar of the bridge. “What you thinking about?”
I pull my hood up and reach for my cigarettes as Tippy approaches, his trench coat reeking of sewer and stale whiskey. His unruly beard cascades down his chest, gray hair tied back in a knot.
“Didn't I say you should start washing your clothes, old man? There's detergent under my sleeping bag. No need to smell like that.” A flame flickers from my lighter. It’s getting colder now as we edge toward May. Fuck. We’re gonna freeze when the snow starts to drop. Might have to find a different place.
“Shut up, boy,” he laughs, settling beside me as we watch the water. “You don't have to live out here. You're young. Are you going to take my advice and get your shit sorted?”
Fourteen isn’t exactly young. Am I bigger than most my age? Yeah, but these muscles aren’t gym-made; they’re from carrying the weight of my shitty childhood. But even at my age, I know I’d be no good pushed into the life that Tippy wishes for me. You either got that white picket fence thing going, or you don’t. My fence is looking more like barbed-wire in front of a prison.
Tippy doesn’t talk much about his family, but if it wasn’t for him, I would have been beaten and left for dead the first night I stumbled out onto the streets, high on weed and my father’s brains. Learned pretty quickly just how respected the old fuck is on these streets.
I shake my head, inhaling nicotine. “I just need to stay under the radar until I'm eighteen. Then I'll get my shit together enough to find a place. For now, I'm saving what I can.”
His eyes narrow, weathered skin crinkling. I know what he’s thinking. Selling drugs for this small gang won’t give me the life I want. He just doesn’t know that I don’t care.
He whistles, tossing loose bark into a large rubbish bin. “I wish I had a son. Could have helped me out with protecting my girls.”
I pause, cigarette just shy of my mouth. He doesn’t talk shit about shit, so any time he does I make sure I’m listening.
He reaches for his worn leather wallet, pausing slightly.
A branch snaps, and ice slides down my spine. “Shh.”
His eyebrow lifts, wallet open. “What is it?”
I wait, listening. Nothing. Probably a fucking stray dog. “Never mind, keep going,” I say, flicking ash from my cigarette.
He tosses his wallet onto my chest. Before the ember can hit the ground, a spotlight burns through my eyes.
I raise my arm to shield it. “What the fuck?”
Rough hands grip my upper arms, and someone shoves something rough over my head. It smells of hay and horseshit.
“Let me go!” I kick and scream, fighting against something fucking unmoveable. “Tippy!”
I thrash until the sack falls away.
“Fuck!” one of my captors grunts.
I twist toward where Tippy had been sitting to find his lifeless body sprawled on the sand, a knife sticking out of his gut.
I shove his wallet into my pocket and scream, “Tippy!” Something hard cracks into my face and everything goes black.
Five
Melissa
Wind rakes through my hair as Phoebe downshifts, taking a sharp corner as we head toward the clubhouse.
“Zane's going to lose his shit if we're late again,” she yells over the music, tapping her bright red nails against the steering wheel. “When the president calls, we answer.”
“Speak for yourself,” I say, trying to sound lighter than I feel. Last night's encounter still burns beneath my skin, both the pleasure and the rejection afterward.
Phoebe glances over at me. “I still can't believe Three hundred thousand dollars!” She whistles low. “That's some serious faith in little Cyanide & Sugar. What do you know about him?”
I shrug, but warmth fills me just from the reminder. I know Phoebe is protective, she always has been, so I’ll take whatever she says with a grain of salt. “Not much. I searched him online, and found a bunch of business he’s helped over the years, so it seems legit.”