Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 106003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
My beautiful, beautiful boy cocks his head, staring at me, as if I’ve said something in a foreign language, but before I can explain it again, he places his free hand on my shoulder and smiles. With the sun shining through the tree crowns to create a halo around him, he’s like a celestial being who’d stepped out of the heavens to grace me with his presence.
“I’m sure they don’t just keep you around because of that.”
A loud whistle, the kind people do to appreciate someone’s looks in old movies, dances through the air, and as I whip my head back, I see a red mohawk sticking out from above the wooden train at the back of the playground.
Rooster stands up with his one-year-old nephew in his arms. “Creep? What the hell? Did Angel do some witchcraft on you last night?”
I frown, squeezing Angel’s hand. Because he’s mine. “How so?”
Rooster approaches with a grin, and I hope he doesn’t wink at Angel. For his own good. “I just… I didn’t know you were hot.” He laughs and nudges my ribs with his elbow in a way that makes me worry for the baby, but fortunately his hold on the small body remains solid.
Angel rolls his eyes. “He was always hot. I just gave him a haircut.”
It’s as if he’s removing all the cobwebs off my body and replacing them with cotton candy. Is it too early to plan our life together? My mind knows it is, I’m not stupid, but my heart is already too far ahead in this race and won’t listen to reason, no matter how loud I yell.
Rooster eyes me with a smirk and joins us. It’s probably obvious that we’re headed for the canteen. “Okay, okay. Can I get a haircut that makes me a ten?”
Angel smirks and squeezes my hand as he leaps off the fence. “No. We already have a ten in this group. I can make you a nine tops.”
What is he saying? That he finds me this handsome?
My heart feels light as it flutters in my chest. Surely, he’s just trying to be nice.
But that doesn’t make me any less proud.
Rooster sighs. “And when Creep leaves to eat on the roof, or wherever he likes to hide, will you then give me a ten-worthy haircut?”
I squint at him. He’s lucky he’s holding a child. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Angel grins. “Exactly. He needs to keep me company,” he says, pulling me toward the open doors.
A guitar tune flows from the speakers as we enter the large hall that hasn’t changed that much since its days as the canteen at Camp Happy Bird. We still eat at long tables, one always reserved for patches, and choose our meals at the counter. I doubt the angry graffiti warning everyone to Eat your vegetables or DIE WEAK would have been acceptable at the kids’ camp, though. It always smells of bacon here, no matter the time of day, ashtrays decorate the table closest to the wide double doors, and the busted old jukebox only plays Elvis or Black Sabbath, with no in-between.
The posters aimed at kids have been replaced by photos from community events. They hang under a stuffed vulture Prophet dubbed Beaky. We used to have a taxidermist in the village, and she made this ungodly creation that’s meant to represent our club logo. The bird’s permanently frozen in a scream and surrounded by a collection of knives attached to it with wires. Brigid puts a Santa hat on it each December.
I hate it.
My gaze strays to the photos hung beneath the feathery abomination. I like to check if any new pictures have joined the ones I’m already familiar with.
Prophet jumping over a bonfire during solstice.
Road arm-wrestling his handsome husband. They’re like two flames of a different color—both strong and ready for action, but while Road is rough around the edges, Clyde looks like he belongs on a romance novel cover with his long blond hair and chiseled jawline. I would have stared at the photo a bit longer, but with the way they’re watching each other, it seems they’re engaged in foreplay, so I end up moving on to the next frame.
Someone’s kid wearing a helmet too big for his head.
Harvey posing with his massive family.
Rooster blackout drunk in a haystack, hugging Cabbage the chicken.
There’s many more and I don’t feature in a single one.
For years, I’ve despised being seen. I was happy in the shadows. But I can’t hide when the bright rays of Angel’s sunshine illuminate my face. Maybe I’m ready to even join the photo wall if I can have him for company.
I clock at least a few phones discreetly pointed my way. My gut tightens, instincts screaming to shrink, to slouch, to vanish into the wood-paneled walls like I’ve trained myself to do since I was a kid warned I wouldn’t get to eat if I showed my face to anyone. But Angel’s hand is warm in mine, reminding me I’m worth looking at, worth standing next to.