Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 79263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
I’m not sure if he means a bike, or a biker. Probably both, and now I’m going to be seeing that image in my head when I close my eyes tonight. “Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t know me.”
It comes out bitchier than I mean it, but he doesn’t know that I spent three years trying desperately not to be that girl. Trying to be normal. I got my GED and went away to college. I kept my hair its natural brown, and pushed down all the dark, ruined parts of myself. I was a little older than the other freshmen, but it worked out. I met nice, normal people who tried to be nice, normal friends with me, but the funny thing about trauma is that it doesn’t care what you wear or how you do your hair.
Somehow I always managed to screw it up. To say too much and forget to hide my sharp edges.
I like you, Dee, but you’re a lot, you know that?
So what’s the point of trying to fit in? People are hard, dogs are easier.
“Hey, I wasn’t trying to piss you off.” Piston crouches down on the other side of Junkyard. “Truth for a truth? You asked about growing up in the scrap yard, yeah? Parts of it were kinda cool, but my old man was a fucking piece of work. He made my life hell and I got out of there as soon as I could.”
I keep my eyes fixed on what I’m doing. It’s easier to speak when I’m not looking at him. “I… I ran with a rough crowd when I was younger. It took a lot to crawl out of that place, and I’ve seen enough to know who the real bad guys are.” Junkyard decides I’m not paying nearly enough attention to drying her off and does a full body shake from tip to tail. Her good ear ends up flipped, and a dark splotch catches my attention. “What’s that?”
Both of us look closer.
“It’s a fucking tattoo,” Piston says in disgust.
Sure enough, there’s a crudely drawn dollar symbol inked in black on the inside of her ear. Junkyard yawns, the pain of that particular injury long forgotten. “We don’t do it here, but some programs mark strays if they’ve been spayed or neutered. I don’t think that’s what this is, though. Do you recognize the mark? Is it a gang or something?”
Piston pulls out his phone and takes a picture. “Not that I know of, but I’ll ask around.”
I should tell Piston to leave, and start getting Junkyard settled into one of the open kennels, but for some reason I don’t want this part of the day to end. Maybe I need to get out more. I’ve been back in town for nearly six months and my only social life is Jerry, the only friend worth hanging onto from my old life, and my sister. I love them both dearly, but Jerry is in the honeymoon phase after moving in with his boyfriend, and Natalie is too busy juggling three men, an almost four year old, her bakery, and morning sickness to have time for me.
Speaking of which… “Can you keep an eye on Junkyard for me? I need to make a call.”
“Yeah, sure.”
I bring them into the break room. There’s the usual kitchenette and space to eat, along with a ratty couch, a reclining chair, a secondhand TV, and a bunch of dog beds and toys so we can socialize them in a more homelike normal environment. Piston grabs the remote and flicks on the TV like he’s at home. He sprawls out on the couch with Junkyard happily curling up next to him, her head leaning against his leg. Piston has an arm draped over the back of the couch, and I get the urge to curl up next to him just like the dog.
I slip out the door and call Natalie.
"Sandra? Something up? I thought you'd be home by now." Natalie sounds confused and a little dazed, like she just woke up from a nap. She's been tired lately, another reason I don't like bothering her.
"I'm okay, but we had a stray brought in and I’m going to be stuck here for a while longer. Just didn't want you to worry."
“You’re about ten years too late for that.” She’s only teasing, but the reminder of how long I’ve been a burden still hits home. “Do you need anything? Quickshot’s home. I could ask him to bring some food over for you. I’m testing out a new recipe and have a ton of extra cookies."
"Thanks, but I’ll figure something out. Don’t let the guys eat everything, though.” Extra treats are hard to keep around with three men and a little boy in the house.