Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
That’s my plan, anyway.
“I’m playing this by ear,” I tell Branson, who’s still frowning at me skeptically. “It shouldn’t take long. I’ll get in touch with you later—okay?”
“Very well, Sir—as you wish. There is a cell phone in the bag of clothes should you wish to call me. My number is programmed into the contacts.”
He gives me a formal nod, fully back in Business Manager mode. Did I mention he was our family’s butler before my father promoted him for his business savvy? Probably not and you wouldn’t guess it to look at him, but when he starts calling me “Sir” and talking like we’re both from Wayne Manor, it becomes abundantly apparent.
“Thanks, Branson.” I clap him on the shoulder and nod. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done over the past three years. I just need to run this one errand before I come back and settle down.”
“The Board will be relieved when you come back,” he tells me. “They’re extremely happy you’ve been released.”
I have my doubts about that—but I don’t doubt Branson’s own relief and his happiness to see me. It shines in his eyes, which have more wrinkles around them than they did when I went in. Also his hair has turned from salt and pepper to full silver. Running Lowell Enterprises had been hard on him these past three years, I can tell. I’ll take that burden off his shoulders soon.
But first, I need to go see Sunny.
3
CONNOR
The trip to Sunny’s hometown of Singing Rock takes me about two hours. It’s not far from the prison—close enough for a visit, but those were strictly denied to the inmates of Cellblock C. Rogue Alphas are considered too dangerous to have any kind of contact with the outside world. Which is actually a good thing because Sunny would have come for a visit in a heartbeat if she’d been allowed.
The non-visitation policy allowed me to keep up the fiction I built through my letters—the idea of a kind and caring older brother. If she’d ever been able to come and see the real Kane in person, that idea would have been blown up in the first five minutes.
I drive through the Appalachian Mountains, marveling at all the beauty…and the freedom. It’s been a long time since I’ve been behind the wheel but the truck handles surprisingly well and I’m able to enjoy the nature around me. Spring is just fading to the first hints of summer, so everything is green and growing or bursting into bloom.
I roll down the window and inhale deeply, taking in the scents of the forest on either side of the road. The Wolf inside me howls in delight to scent the wild lands around me instead of being constantly surrounded by concrete and cinderblock, smelling the stink of fifty other men who could use a shower and the disgusting odor of what passes for food in the chow hall. Oh fuck yeah—this month’s Shift is going to be amazing.
Speaking of the chow hall, I skipped both breakfast and lunch today—I was too excited about my release to be able to eat. But now my stomach is growling. I think about stopping along the way to get something, but I’m almost to Singing Rock now, so I figure I’ll save my appetite for some of Sunny’s pie—if I decide to stay that long.
I hope I look all right for this meeting. The jeans Branson bought me are a little too tight, as is the plain black t-shirt. But of course, he was buying for the man I was when I went inside and I’m not that guy anymore. Like I said, prison changes you.
At any rate, the work boots with their steel toes fit great, as does the leather bomber jacket he got me. I’m not sure where he bought it—definitely not Walmart. It’s made of buttery brown leather and it fits me perfectly. I already love it—it feels like freedom to wear something with a metal zipper which is something we were denied in prison—(you can turn almost anything metal into some kind of weapon.) I’ve got the cell phone stowed in one pocket and my wallet, which Branson thoughtfully loaded with cash, in the other.
At last I reach Singing Rock—so named because it’s not far from a rock formation that seems to “sing” when the wind blows through it. That’s what Sunny told me anyway, in one of her letters.
It’s just a wide place in the road—one of those “blink and you’ll miss it” towns. I see a tiny post office that’s sharing room with a small rural library, a gas station with a single pump, a convenience store that advertises fresh vegetables and groceries! on a faded banner hung out front, a tiny Baptist church with a miniature steeple, and—sure enough—The Pie Shop diner.