Delayed Read online

  ISBN-13: 9798702810980

  2021 Copyright © Nathan Kingsly

  https://authornathankingsly.mystrikingly.com/

  Cover Design by: @KBookDesigns

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author, Nathan Kingsly.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  To my Naughty Queens street team leader Queen Lorey, and the other Queens of my team (Queen Bethany, Queen Lisa, Queen Sherry, Queen Denise, Queen Deb, Queen Karen, Queen Krisha, Queen Michelle, Queen Jen, Queen Nari, Queen Nena, Queen Lynn, and Queen Stephanie) for supporting me the best. Without you, I wouldn’t have come nearly so far in such a short time.

  . . . .

  To Sole, for reading first, and accompanying me on this journey; it would have been a lonely one if not for my APC.

  . . . .

  Thank you to The Redhead's Book Blog for hosting their annual Hall of Fame competition, where I won first place for the most anticipated book of 2021.

  . . . .

  To my readers. Out of all the books you could have chosen to start reading today, you chose mine. Essentially a nobody, reaching for a dream thought to be out of reach. You do me an honor, and I thank you.

  Title page

  Acknowledgments

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  Epilogue

  The End

  About the author

  “You sure you’ll be here?” she asks for the fifth time on this call and wonders why I don’t come home.

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, I reply with a sigh, “I promised, didn’t I?"

  “Yes, but you’re not great at follow-through. I don’t want mom disappointed again.” Pain splits under my ribs. She’s another reason I haven’t made it home in years. It’s too hard to look her in the face and not see how I have failed.

  Dropping my hand, my fingers curl into a fist. “Mia, I’ll be there, okay?”

  “Alright, we’ll see you next week?” Her anxiety bleeds into her statement, making it into a question. If I don’t hang up, she’ll suck me into another lecture, and I’ve reached my allotment today.

  “See you.” I hang up without an ounce of remorse. All too soon, I won’t have the luxury. Instead, lectures will be shouted through closed doors with no other way of shutting her out.

  Putting the phone into my back pocket, I get back on the floor. The smell of tacky packaging tape, cardboard, and dust fills my nose. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimmer lighting.

  Having a night shift job, you’re often left with your thoughts, but tonight, I’m not sure I want to be left with mine.

  “Hey, Liam?” The talkie goes off on my hip.

  Unclipping it, I respond. “Yeah?”

  “You close to the bullpen?”

  “Yep, I was just in the office.” I point over my shoulder as if he could see. Rolling my eyes, I hook my thumb through the belt loops of my jeans. “Good, grab the key for the forklift, will ya, and drive to aisle twenty-eight.”

  “K. Be there in a minute.”

  Clipping the talkie back on my belt, I’m on autopilot as I grab the lift and start to drive. Brian is there waiting on me with a skid full of merchandise. He’s rubbing the hair on his face. He should shave that shit off, but he’s convinced it helps him pick up women. His apartment is next to mine, we’ve got thin walls, and I know it’s not doing him any favors. “Hey, thanks,” he says as I park it and throw him the keys.

  “Sure. I’ll be in fourteen.”

  “You already got the picker over there?”

  I nod, “Yep. See you in an hour for a break?”

  He shrugs. “Sounds about right. Oh! Did you find someone to cover for you next week?”

  “Charles said he would get it covered.” I shrug.

  “What’d you do to get on his good side?” He runs a hand through his short-cropped dark hair.

  “We have an understanding, and it helps that I don’t call in sick unless I can’t get out of bed,” I smirk.

  “I don’t do that...often.”

  I laugh. “Try almost every Friday. Charles isn’t stupid; he was young once.”

  “Can’t tell by looking at him,” Brian says dryly. “So, you going this time?”

  Shrugging, I run my eyes over the stacks of boxes as if they have answers. My resolve is resting somewhere above the hanging lights on top of boxes I can’t see. “We’ll see.”

  “You’re such a chicken shit.”

  I look back at him and shake my head. “You don’t know my family.”

  “They’re better than mine.”

  “What! Your father the dentist and housewife mom?” I can feel the disbelief bleeding into my features.

  “Normal isn’t as painless as you seem to believe.”

  I snort, “Sure, man, whatever you say.” I’d kill for normal.

  “Fuck off, man. Get to work.” He throws in a middle salute as he waves me off.

  Going through the motions, lifting, and storing skids, is all muscle memory now. Since leaving college, I’ve had the same job. I’ve moved a few times, changed companies a time or two, but third shift jobs are easy to come by. Most don’t want the hours and the solitary existence.

  Fewer people I affect with my decisions, the better. Yet Mia never passes the opportunity to comment on my life choices. Out of everyone, she should understand why I live below my potential.

  “Liam, I’m hungry as fuck. Get your ass in here.”

  Not bothering to respond, I finish the lift I’m doing. When I’m done, I head over.

  As I walk into the break room, I choke on the smell that lingers from food cooked on the earlier shift. The most pungent odor is fish, as it manifests on my tongue. “You need to start packing your own fucking lunch.”

  “That’s what you’re for, Mr. Betty Crocker.” I want to wipe the grin off his face.

  “Fuck you, dig out some change and go to the death machines to get food.” Walking past him, I grab my lunchbox from my locker.

  “As if you could live without me.” His hands in a position to receive.

  “Dick.” I bark out as I roll my eyes. “How hard is it to make a goddamn sandwich?” I throw one at him.

  He catches it with surprising swiftness. “Don’t throw that word around, or I’ll start thinking you want mine.”

  “In your dreams.” I take a bite of my sandwich. The ham is sweet while the honey mustard balances it out, the crunch of the lettuce loud in my head, and the pepper jack cheese leaves a lingering heat as I swallow.

  “Nope, apparently in yours.”

  “Shut up, and eat your free sandwich,” I say around another bite.

  “Yes. Mr. Betty.”

  Growling, I wish I
had something more to throw at him. “Just wait; you’ll regret talking shit when I’m gone for a few days.”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “We’ll see.”

  After we’ve eaten our sandwiches, we go back to work and don’t talk until the early morning when we get to our cars.

  "Hey! You want to hit the gym? Scout for a good time?" Brian asks, his eyebrows attempting to tempt and failing.

  "Come on, dude, we just got off work. I’m tired as shit.”

  “Chill, man, I was just offering. You could have said no." He taps on the hood of his car.

  "You would have pushed until I said more than no." Unlocking my car door, I swing it open.

  "Yeah, I would have." He says through a shit-eater grin.

  “My point exactly.” Glancing in the backseat before sliding in, I shut the door of my car and lock it, not caring what he says before getting into his own. Probably another attempt to get under my skin. When will he learn that it rarely works? He’s a dick but the only friend I have.

  The drive back to the three-story building I call home is uneventful, exactly the way I like it.

  Checking around the parking lot and the upper-level terraces, I know I’m alone. Before I get out of my car, I unlock my glove box and pull out my nine-millimeter. Ejecting the magazine, I cock back the barrel, and the unshot bullet tumbles out into my palm. After reloading it into the magazine, I jam it inside the well and slide the chamber back. A peace settles over me, knowing that a bullet lays in wait if I happen to need it.

  With another check around the perimeter, I get out of my car and shove the gun down the back of my jeans, covering it with my shirt. Hitting the button to lock my car, the sound spikes my nerves. It will take ten seconds instead of seven if I need to climb back in. Breathing in and out through my nose, I steal back my resolve.

  With my first step across the lot, my heartbeat picks up. By the time my shoe hits the flight of stairs, it’s pounding in my ears. When I make it down the walkway to face my front door, sweat beads on my forehead. I’ve done this countless times, and every time I expect something different.

  With one hand, I unlock my door.

  It smells of my body wash and the coffee I brewed before heading to work. Leaning against the door, I hold my breath as I listen to the quiet of my apartment just to be sure before turning and locking the door’s deadbolt and applying the chain.

  Walking to my bedroom, my ass hits the bed, and I let out the breath I've been holding since getting out of my car.

  The beats of my heart level and everything starts to slow to normal. Getting up from the bed, I place my gun against my back to the nightstand before heading to the bathroom.

  Turning on the shower, I undress and walk naked to my bedroom to dump clothes into the hamper and grab a clean pair of boxers. By the time I make it back to the bathroom, there’s fog starting to mist up the mirror, and I know it’s the right temperature. Letting out a sigh as the first of the spray hits my tense muscles, I roll my shoulders and tilt my head from side to side to loosen up.

  Bringing my hand up, I locate the source of the sting coming from my calloused hands. A new blister formed, angry and red. Damn things pop up all the time. I make another reminder to invest in work gloves, though I know I won’t follow through. Mia has that right at least; my follow-through is shit.

  Waiting another few seconds for my body to relax, I grab the soap and wash off the day. Shutting off the spray, I grab the towel off its perch and dry off; before snapping my boxers over my hips.

  Not bothering with anything else this morning, I head to my bedroom, closing and locking it behind me, before getting under the covers. The scent of day-old soap and fibers from the fabric of the pillow wafts when my head hits. The sliver of light coming through the blinds cast a spotlight for them, showcasing their dance in the airflow I wouldn’t see otherwise.

  As they disappear from sight, I let the buzz of everyone else’s day lull me to sleep.

  I feel groggy as I come to, but my hands are already searching for my gun on the nightstand. The sound again jolts the rest of me awake as I crouch down on the floor next to the bed, the gun in front of me as I take in my surroundings. My bedroom is clear, the lock still intact. Standing, I pull the blinds back, only enough to slip a finger between the blinds to look outside. Scanning the street, there’s no one out of their vehicles, just an occasional passing car. Sliding the blinds back into position, I face my bedroom door. With determined stride, I put my back to the wall next to the door as I unlock it. I grit my teeth, and my heart races as the hinges protest to peek through the crack between the door frame and door. When nothing shows itself in the hall on the other side, I swing it open. Knowing with each step I make, the floorboard will not make a sound.

  My heart jumps in my chest when the sound comes again, and I press myself against the nearest wall. It takes me a few seconds to get my breathing under control before I slide against it towards the corner. Peering around it, my frown deepens. Nothing. Twisting my head to look in the other direction towards my kitchen, there’s nothing there either. With cautious steps, I walk towards the sliding door that leads to my balcony and pull back one of the vertical blinds.

  There, in the parking lot, one of my neighbors, Jack, I think is his name, is shooting off rockets with two other guys recording it for who knows what purpose other than being complete prickheads. Granted, most people in this building are working right now. With a curse under my breath, I make it back to my bedroom and resolve to report him this time to the super; because talking to him about this shit isn’t getting through his thick skull. His mom is even more thick-headed than him, but she has been good for a time or two of angry fucking. She's the lesson I learned in the first few weeks of moving in. The rule to ‘not sleep with thy neighbor’ was born. Back then, I did a lot of things I regret in the name of trying to forget.

  Locking the door again, replacing the gun in its original place, I groan as I catch the time on my phone. I’ve only been asleep for four hours!

  It takes me longer to find sleep, irritation polluting my veins as I close my eyes.

  My eyes snap open, my heart still racing from the dream. Leaning upon a forearm, I twist to survey the room and start to calm in the knowledge that I’m alone. Flopping onto my back, I watch the ceiling fan until I can track the blades in my vision as my heart slows to normal.

  I haven’t been this keyed up in a while. The upcoming trip home has me on edge. My toes reach away from the chill of the floor when my feet connect. With one hand on the edge of the bed, the other moves through my disheveled dark hair.

  Sighing, I get out of bed, my knee popping from an old injury as I unlock the bedroom. Heading to the kitchen, I grab my shaker bottle, dump in my morning shake and pre-workout, and take it back to the bedroom. After drinking the contents, I get dressed, stretch, and head out after locking my apartment door.

  At two in the afternoon, there isn’t much activity on the street when I run towards the gym a mile away. Nothing about this small, backwoods town would make you think, California. The people here could have picked me out of a county lineup, but now after years of blending in, they no longer look up as I pass or seek a returned wave.

  Sheri nods at me before hitting a key on the computer to check me in as the door closes behind me. Stealing the coveted corner spot, I start my routine.

  After everything, I can’t allow myself to be weak or powerless again. Almost every day, I run and train my body to become stronger.

  Usually, during a workout, I have the ability to shut my mind off, but today isn’t the norm. In a few days, I will go back. I fixate on the repercussions, and it’s throwing me off. Grabbing the gloves I shoved in my shorts, I slide them on. My grip improves, but my mind still wanders back to the countdown. Maybe, there is a way of getting out of this I haven’t tried yet?

  Charles could call my sister, saying he has a project. No, I used that last time. I eye the weights on the deadlift bar. If
they land right, it might break my foot, thereby needing surgery and casting. No. That would eat up my vacation time - that thought takes it off the table.

  Someone clears their throat, and I peer up. She’s attractive with blonde hair in a long braid over one shoulder, her green eyes flirting as I drop the deadlift bar and weights to the floor.

  “What?” I ask, trying to catch my breath.

  Her eyes grow a fraction wider, probably not expecting my harsh tone.

  “Are you a trainer?” One of her hands grip the end of her braid, her tone less sure than her body of a moment ago.

  Looking around, I spot the closest trainer and jerk my chin in his direction. “There’s one with the name tag. Unless you want something else?” I raise an eyebrow. We both know why she walked over. There are at least two other trainers on the floor right now, and she doesn't seem blonde enough not to realize I wasn't one of them. If she wants me, the passive-aggressive approach isn’t going to do her any favors.

  She takes a step back while shaking her head. It’s too bad; it would have been nice to have a distraction.

  “Thanks.” She says before she twists to walk away. I watch her toned ass looking squeezable in those neon blue leggings. I brush off the sweat from my brow and go in for my last set.

  About to leave, grabbing my keys from the locker room, I see she’s found a non-trainer to give her what she's after. Her blush high on her cheeks as our eyes connect. Giving her a smirk, she closes her eyes before ducking her face into the guy's neck.

  Leaving them to it, I head towards the door, but Sheri waves and catches my attention before making my way out of it. “Is your class still scheduled for Saturday?”

  I shake my head. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you. I'll be out of town for a few days starting Saturday." Unless I wander in front of oncoming traffic between now and then.