Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
“Sarah, I invited you to help save your son from harm. You refuse. You don’t learn from your mistakes, but gotdamn it, you’re gonna learn today.” He quickly disconnected the call, gulped the last bit of the bourbon, and made another call.
“Hello, this is Mr. Wilde, of Wilde Enterprises. I need to speak to the land surveyor of Piedmont County, please…”
CHAPTER FIVE
Skulls and Strictly Business
Poet was standing by her big light gray door, wearing a pair of different colored socks. Kage normally wouldn’t have noticed such a thing—he’d seen all sorts of customers, some of whom were rather peculiar, but seeing as he’d been biting at the chance to see her again, he scanned her from head to toe. His eyes froze on the yellow sock with pink polka dots, then went to the other sock: red with green stripes.
“It was funny sock day at work,” she explained as she crossed her arms, following his line of sight. “More importantly though, what in the world are you doing here?” She seemed to be on the edge of laughter, and at the corner of annoyance. Perhaps there was also a little kiddie pool of surprise smack dab in the middle. Splish, splash.
“To take measurements and give you an estimate.” He shook his toolbox to make his point, then swept his hair away from his eye as he approached her. She looked down at the porch floorboards when he cast a shadow all around her, swallowing her up.
“But I said I would call you.”
“And I told you not to come back on my land after I chased you off my property, but you did anyway. With a dead rabbit. If you can’t follow orders, well, I figure I can’t either.” He shrugged. “I’m here now. It’s hot as hell out here, too. It’s hotter’n a goat’s booty in a pepper patch.” He looked up at the sun and swiped his brow. “Can I have somethin’ cool to drink?”
“How ’bout I get a cup of water from the outhouse for you?” She smirked, then rocked back on her heels. Real smug like.
“Yeah! Throw a cat at her!” came some strange voice from within the house. A woman’s voice, deep-rooted, tinged with age, and an accent that curled around the vowels. It was a bit Southern, and a bit foreign. He couldn’t quite place it.
“Aunt Huni, it’s not Melba!” Poet hollered back, briefly glancing over her shoulder.
“Who is it then?”
“…A troll that lives under a bridge.” She cackled.
“Can I get that drink? I figure you can talk shit about me just as easily under that roof as out here.”
“It’s not hot out here. You just wanna be nosy and see the inside of my house.”
“It is hot. I’ve been out all damn day. You know, some of us have to work for a livin’, versus playin’ with animal dolls all day,” he teased. “…but I am a little curious about your habitat, I admit. I figured an animal stuffer like you might live in a doll house with little balls of cotton, swatches of cloth, and spools of thread stickin’ out of your pockets.” He chuckled. “But I see it’s just a big ol’ spacious farmhouse. I like it.” He looked at the big structure behind her. It was old, but well built. It had a special something about it. “This is a nice piece of property. Would make a profitable Airbnb. You did good.”
“I’m glad it receives your endorsement. Come on in from your trashcan, Oscar.” She opened the screen door wide, and when they entered the house, let it slam shut behind them. He followed a few feet inside the front room. As soon as he was standing in front of the television, the strong scent of cleaning products, onions and cheese hit his nose. He found himself facing an old Asian woman sitting on the couch to his right. Her lips were drawn tight, and her brows bunched. Their gazes locked.
“That’s not Melba,” the woman mumbled as she nibbled on a greasy sandwich.
“I know. I told you that.”
“Matangkad.”
“Yes, he’s tall. Aunt Huni, this here is Mr. Wilde. Prefers to be called by his first name of Kage.”
“Aunt? But you’re Black, right?”
Both women looked at him as if he were the stupidest piece of shit to be shot out of a hound dog’s ass.
“Well, hell, I ain’t no genealogist, but I know an Asian woman when I see one. Are you Chinese?”
The old woman gasped and clutched her necklace. Then, she fell out laughing, kicking her feet and all. Poet wasn’t too far behind.
“Are you an Eskimo?” The old lady giggled. “No, I’m not Chinese, dummy! I don’t look Chinese, either.” She rolled her eyes. “You must have cataracts. I don’t sound Chinese, do I?” Yeah, actually you do a little. But he kept his opinion about such things to himself. “Silly man.” She tsked, then took another bite of her sandwich. It looked disgusting. Choke.