Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
But when Eleanor steps out of her luxury SUV, there's no camera in her hand, just a yellow envelope.
"Legion," she calls, her voice carrying across the parking lot. I wince when the guys in the garage—previously ignoring me like I'm invisible—suddenly look over, taking an interest in whatever's about to unfold in the parking lot with the local poor kid and the Ashby Queen. "I was just passing through and saw you."
Passing through Terry, Montana?
Right. I almost laugh.
She walks toward me with that confidence rich people have—like the world was built for them to move through it.
"Happy birthday," she says, holding out the envelope.
I freeze with my hand on the truck door. Nobody else remembered. Not my mama, who's been working doubles and sleeps when she's home. Not little Destiny, who's only three and spends most of her time hiding from Deacon's moods. Certainly not that bastard Deacon himself, who's been demanding more and more of my hard-earned cash to stay away from our trailer.
I'm flat out broke these days and it's really starting to piss me off.
The Badlands crew hasn't noticed me either, despite working at the Terry Garage for over a year. I've been trying to get them to let me prospect, but they look through me like I'm made of smoke. A kid on a Honda Shadow with no connections isn't worth their time.
Not even Savannah remembered my birthday.
But who shows up, today, of all days?
Eleanor fuckin' Ashby. Again. Without fail. And I hate her for that—for being the one person who sees me when nobody else even bothers to look.
I sigh and take the envelope, my dirty fingers leaving smudges on the crisp paper. Inside are photographs and five stacks of twenty-dollar bills bound with a paper band that reads, $2000.
Ten thousand dollars. I look at Eleanor. “What the fuck is this?”
“It’s money, Legion. And photographs. Don’t you want to look at them?”
I let out a breath, removin’ the photos from the envelope. It’s a nice stack of five by sevens. Most of them are of me—moments of my childhood I’d forgot about long ago. Me on my shitty BMX bike. Me skippin' stones across the creek. Me standing on a ridge at sunset. The pictures in my hands are anchors to my youth. I grow up before my eyes.
But it's the last photo that stops time.
It's a man with my jawline, my eyes, my build. But older, harder, with a beard and the thousand-yard stare of someone who's seen too much.
My father.
I look up at Eleanor. "Why are you doin’ this to me?"
"Doing what?" Eleanor asks quietly.
“Killin’ me like this. Why do you wanna kill me like this, Eleanor? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
She frowns. Like my words actually mean something, though I doubt they do. "They’re just some of my favorite photos of you. And some money. I meant it as a birthday present, but… but you can consider it payment for all the modeling you've done over the years if it makes you feel better."
I don't react. Don't thank her. Don't smile. My face stays stone as I toss the envelope onto the passenger seat of the truck I drive to pick up parts.
Then I go back to unloading the truck bed like she isn't even here.
"I won't be around for a few weeks," Eleanor says, shifting her weight from one expensive shoe to the other. "I'm… taking a series of photographs in… Wyoming. The light there is extraordinary in late summer."
I don't look at her. Don't acknowledge her words. Just keep workin', the muscles in my arms and back flexing with each lift and turn.
"Legion," she tries again. Her voice has an edge of desperation that makes my skin crawl. "I'd like to talk about—"
"Got work to finish, Eleanor," I cut her off, still not looking at her. "Thanks for the money and… whatever. Thanks."
She lingers for another minute, then walks back to her Range Rover.
I don't watch her leave, but listen to the engine as it purrs to life, and she pulls away.
The next morning, I'm standing in the Harley dealership in Billings before they even flip the sign to OPEN. The salesman, a paunchy guy with a goatee and a Sturgis Rally t-shirt, eyes the neatly bundled stacks I place on the counter with open suspicion.
"Where'd you get this kind of money, son?" he asks, thumbing through the bills like they're a deck of cards.
"Saved it," I lie.
"Uh-huh," he says, not believing me for a second. "And you're how old?"
"Eighteen," I answer, sliding my ID across the counter. "As of yesterday."
He looks at the license, then at me, then back at the money. "Well, let me count this again, just to be sure."
He counts out every bill, taking his sweet ass time like he's hoping I'll get nervous and confess to robbing a bank.