Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
One.
Two.
Three.
The paper with Little Foot’s number is still in my pocket. Taunting me.
I pull it out and lay it on the nightstand. Just in case. Because as much as I tell myself I don’t need anyone…There’s a small, fragile part of me that wants to believe I might be wrong. Finally, I give into the fatigue of the night shift and sleep for a few hours.
The next day blurs by in waves of silence. I clean up around the room, not because I care but because I can’t sit still. I scrub at the crusted sink, organize the handful of toiletries we’ve scraped together, pick up the empty bottles and wrappers that always seem to multiply overnight. It doesn’t help. The air still smells like old cigarettes and despair.
Momma barely moves. She’s quiet now. Too quiet.
Around noon, I sneak across the lot to the vending machine outside the office and press my ear against the glass. It buzzes low, steady, like it’s breathing. I slide in the last of our change for a water bottle and a pack of crackers.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
I sit on the curb, legs stretched out, letting the sun warm my face while I nibble the crackers slow. It’s not hunger that eats at me. It’s fear.
Because I know what’s coming.
Frankie doesn’t just show up to say hello. He shows up when he wants something. And if Momma isn’t good for it, he comes after me. He’s never touched me—at least not yet—but I’ve seen the way he looks at me. The kind of look that sticks to your skin long after he’s gone. It is coming, I feel it.
The kind of look that makes you wish you were invisible.
Back in the room, I sit at the little table and stare at my phone. I haven’t called anyone in weeks. Haven’t had anyone to call. No friends left. No family. Just Momma and Frankie’s shadow creeping in from every corner. I pay for the phone under one of those pay as you go things, but it’s a flat fee for unlimited usage.
Usage that doesn’t happen regularly. In fact, outside of getting called into work when someone calls out, I don’t actually talk to anyone on it.
I pull out the paper with Little Foot’s number again. It’s crumpled now, worn soft from how many times I’ve held it. Pick it up, put it in my pocket, take it out, put it on the nightstand, all over and over on repeat.
I don’t think. I just dial. The phone rings twice before he picks up.
“Yeah?” His voice is low, scratchy, like he’s been smoking or maybe just woke up.
“It’s me,” I say, and realize too late I didn’t say who.
But he knows. I sense it. “You okay?” he asks, his voice sharper now.
I want to lie. I want to tell him I’m fine. That I don’t need anyone.
But the words won’t come. “I don’t know,” I whisper.
There’s a pause on the line. A long one.
Then: “You at the same place?”
I nod, then remember he can’t see me. “Yeah.”
“Give me a few hours. I’ll be there.”
The line goes dead before I can say anything else. I stare at the phone, stunned. He’s coming. Why? Why would someone like him give a damn about someone like me? Is he really coming?
I don’t understand it.
But I don’t hang up.
I wait.
Hours pass.
I try to distract myself—clean more, re-fold the threadbare clothes in my duffel, sweep the floor with a towel. I peek out the curtain every five minutes like I’m expecting Santa Claus.
Then I hear it. The low rumble of a bike engine. I don’t even hesitate. I run to the door and fling it open. There he is. Black Harley-Davidson. Leather cut. Sunglasses. Boots that kick up dust as he walks across the lot.
My chest tightens. “You came,” I say.
“Told you I would.”
We stand there, just looking at each other. For the first time in a long time, I feel seen. Not pitied. Not picked apart. Not judged. Just… seen.
“Come ride with me,” he says.
And God help me—I go. Throwing all common sense and caution to the wind, I take the helmet from his hand and climb on behind him.
We ride for what feels like hours.
I don’t ask where we’re going. I just hold on. My arms wrapped around his waist, my face pressed into his back. The wind tears at my hair, but I don’t care. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel free.
He takes back roads, cuts through the woods, the hum of the engine the only sound between us. It’s not until we pull off near a wide, quiet overlook that he finally kills the engine.
I slide off the bike and stretch my legs. The view is beautiful—rolling hills and thick green forest that looks untouched by the mess I left behind.