Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 61149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“I should’ve killed them for what they did to you,” he tauntingly wags the hammer, “but I didn’t.” The corner of his paper-thin lips curls upward. “Call it your early Christmas present, Sweet Pea.”
I’ll call it the Christmas miracle that it is.
“That’s how much I love you.”
Each step closer churns my stomach and encourages me to grip the writing utensil harder.
“Plus, I want them to watch us.”
To suck in the much-needed oxygen.
“Like I had to watch them.”
To wiggle my toes around in my tennis shoes I’m so grateful I put on.
Brad’s eventual arrival at the window is accompanied by him smiling, disturbingly brighter. “Hello, Sweet Pea.”
Dry heaving can barely be stopped.
But it is.
Because I can’t throw up.
Because I can’t move a muscle.
Not. A. Single. One.
Not yet.
He’s gonna give me one chance to attack and escape, and I need to be focused on that and only that.
“I have mother’s pearls for you,” the monster announces, grin glowing in the darkness. “I can’t wait to put them back around your neck where they belong.” His hammer free fingers pull at the handle revealing its locked nature, another automatic action The Kid always does – like taking his fucking car keys. “Why isn’t this open?” He repeats the movement prior to commanding. “Open it.” There isn’t time to verbally deny the request. “Open. It.” The over articulation indicates that his irritation is exponentially increasing. “Open. It. Now!”
God, it’s what I imagine dealing with a toddler coming off a sugar crash must be like.
“Nowwwwww!”
Or one without its nap.
“Nowwwww!”
Or one in terrible need of some stronger discipline.
“Nowwwwwwww!”
One solid swing of the tool, to my surprise, doesn’t break the window.
And neither does the second that’s slightly to the left.
Or third that’s slightly to the right.
However, the fourth, which lands directly on top of his first hit damages the integrity of the blockade.
Creates additional cracks.
Whispers to me to prepare to shield my face from the pending glass rain shower.
“Oppppeennnnnnnn!” This heavy whack has me holding my breath. “Theeeeeeeeeeee!” Another blow pushes the tip of the tool through. “Doooooooorrrrrrrrr!”
Tiny sharp pebbles burst in my direction, forcing me to shut my eyes and bury my head in the crook of my forearm in hopes of protecting myself.
Maniacal bellows pour from Brad as he leans his face inward to find the handle, providing me with the perfect opportunity to strike. Without hesitation, I drive the uncapped pen directly upward into his eye, grip and force unwavering until he’s stumbling backwards on an injured howl, “Fuckkkkkk!”
At that, I swing the door open, slamming it into his bent over frame, landing a blow to his head that not only knocks him onto his ass, but the air out of his system.
Yet again there’s no reluctance, no inkling of resistance to take off running for the wooded area across the road to the sound of him chillingly taunting, “Run…run…as fast you can…I will catch you…because I always can…”
Chapter 2
Nolan
I really need to hire that guy I interviewed last week.
He was acceptable.
Not the best lug nut in the package but good enough to get the job done.
Truth is, I’m just so fucking tired of dragging my ass out of bed at one in the morning to change a flat of the non-diaper variety.
I don’t mind getting out of bed for that.
You would think that I would.
That I’d hate having to get up to change a goddamn dirty diaper when I’m happily passed out with a handful of my wife’s tit and my dick wedged nicely against my husband’s ass, but I don’t.
I love being there for our boy.
I love getting to be the father I never had.
The one I wanted.
The one The Kid fucking deserved.
I love every portion of the fully loaded dad package.
The giggles.
The finger curls.
The pick me up wiggles.
Fuck, I even love the less lovable features too.
The shitty diapers.
The late-night feedings.
The cock block cries.
Which actually have a slightly different rev to them.
Yeah.
Like a fucking engine.
No surprise that The Kid was the one to point that shit out.
I swear he’s an audible genius.
I sure hope he passed that along to our little guy.
He already has his blue eyes and thick black hair and love of everything else car related.
And I love that shit too.
I don’t resent the fact that Andrew – because Rabbit refused to let him be named Andretti – looks like a mini me of the two people I love more than anything else on this fucking planet.
I’m proud of that.
Besides they’re the better-looking ones.
At least this way, Drew’s got a chance at pulling a hot piece of tail in his future.
Or…two?
Whatever shit is right for him.
That’s all we want.
And being raised in a house with three parents will – theoretically – work as a reminder that we believe in doing the shit that fits him best, whatever that means.
I pray to the big mechanic in the sky he never worries about that.