Read Online The Line That Binds Series Box Set by J. M. Miller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. M. Miller
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my own mother was an addict, my views of people had changed considerably.
“Yeah, but you’ll have to give me a little while to count all of this up. I’m not sure how much you’re looking to get out of all of this.” She fingered more items, inspecting the material and reading each pristine label in awe.
I wondered if her eyes were too heavy to notice the different stitches on the jackets’ bottom seams. That’s where I’d implanted a slim, metallic letter L. It was my claim, my way to prove a theft. I knew it lessened their value, but that was something I never needed to care about. I never expected to sell them.
Tearing my eyes from the clothes, I surveyed the store. I had to finish this personality change before I lost my nerve. “I’ve got another box outside. Don’t worry though,” I added when her red eyes widened in surprise, “I’m shopping, too.”
She nodded, and when I returned with the other box she started sorting more items and tallying numbers on a notepad.
I retreated to the maze of metal racks, looking for the size that would fit my current level of squishy. My size’s row was overflowing with hangers and a slow sigh escaped my lips. I was so worried there wouldn’t be many choices, but I was happily mistaken. People donated, swapped, or sold here regularly. A majority of the clothes looked in fact “gently used” as another sign in the front window implied. I lucked out with several pairs of jeans and plenty of T-shirts and hoodies. I also grabbed a pair of combat boots ideal for mowing lawns and whatever else I’d have to do on the property.
When I finished shopping, the counter lady met me at the checkout. She listed her offered values as another girl entered the store. The girl was roughly my age, dressed in a basic button down and a high-end skirt from a few seasons ago. Her auburn hair was obviously dyed and a tad on the malnourished side, like mine. But she styled it nicely, swept up in a messy business bun. Her body moved purposefully toward the trade-in counter without even a sideways glance in our direction. She was focused on the prize. I could relate because I’d lived that shopping mentality. I hardly ever rushed for bargains, but I did rush to beat my best friend, Veronica, to the latest releases. There’d been a few occasions where blood was spilt over the same piece in a new collection.
The counter lady prattled under her breath about her being the only employee working today, irritated that the girl whom just walked in might stake claim on items she’d neglected to set aside for herself. She finished with the numbers, never noticing my signature implants in the jackets’ seams. I agreed to the prices then she deducted the amount of my purchases and handed me a fatter-than-expected stack of cash. The crinkled bills would feed us for a couple more weeks or possibly pay the first month’s utility bills.
The property was deserted when I returned home. I pushed through the heavy oak front door into the sounds of a high-pitched vacuum slaughtering the peaceful harmony of a Bob Marley song, both blaring from the living room. Gavin doesn’t listen to reggae.
Dad? Cleaning?
I walked through a set of double doors across the hallway from the office, smelling the sweetness of oil wood polish and the bitterness of vinegar combined. The room was identical to the office in dimensions, though its main décor was a leather couch and matching chair instead of a huge desk and table. There was also a flat-screen TV tucked inside a cherry armoire against the wall. A matching cabinet stood at its side, half its size. It was the source of the music. Speakers were built into the sides and its top was slid open, revealing two old analog radio dials and a vinyl record spinning on a turntable.
Dad stomped on the old vacuum’s foot pedal, ending the screeching motor’s misery. He grabbed a hot pink feather duster and stretched his arm high above the heavy cream curtains, scattering
“Yeah, but you’ll have to give me a little while to count all of this up. I’m not sure how much you’re looking to get out of all of this.” She fingered more items, inspecting the material and reading each pristine label in awe.
I wondered if her eyes were too heavy to notice the different stitches on the jackets’ bottom seams. That’s where I’d implanted a slim, metallic letter L. It was my claim, my way to prove a theft. I knew it lessened their value, but that was something I never needed to care about. I never expected to sell them.
Tearing my eyes from the clothes, I surveyed the store. I had to finish this personality change before I lost my nerve. “I’ve got another box outside. Don’t worry though,” I added when her red eyes widened in surprise, “I’m shopping, too.”
She nodded, and when I returned with the other box she started sorting more items and tallying numbers on a notepad.
I retreated to the maze of metal racks, looking for the size that would fit my current level of squishy. My size’s row was overflowing with hangers and a slow sigh escaped my lips. I was so worried there wouldn’t be many choices, but I was happily mistaken. People donated, swapped, or sold here regularly. A majority of the clothes looked in fact “gently used” as another sign in the front window implied. I lucked out with several pairs of jeans and plenty of T-shirts and hoodies. I also grabbed a pair of combat boots ideal for mowing lawns and whatever else I’d have to do on the property.
When I finished shopping, the counter lady met me at the checkout. She listed her offered values as another girl entered the store. The girl was roughly my age, dressed in a basic button down and a high-end skirt from a few seasons ago. Her auburn hair was obviously dyed and a tad on the malnourished side, like mine. But she styled it nicely, swept up in a messy business bun. Her body moved purposefully toward the trade-in counter without even a sideways glance in our direction. She was focused on the prize. I could relate because I’d lived that shopping mentality. I hardly ever rushed for bargains, but I did rush to beat my best friend, Veronica, to the latest releases. There’d been a few occasions where blood was spilt over the same piece in a new collection.
The counter lady prattled under her breath about her being the only employee working today, irritated that the girl whom just walked in might stake claim on items she’d neglected to set aside for herself. She finished with the numbers, never noticing my signature implants in the jackets’ seams. I agreed to the prices then she deducted the amount of my purchases and handed me a fatter-than-expected stack of cash. The crinkled bills would feed us for a couple more weeks or possibly pay the first month’s utility bills.
The property was deserted when I returned home. I pushed through the heavy oak front door into the sounds of a high-pitched vacuum slaughtering the peaceful harmony of a Bob Marley song, both blaring from the living room. Gavin doesn’t listen to reggae.
Dad? Cleaning?
I walked through a set of double doors across the hallway from the office, smelling the sweetness of oil wood polish and the bitterness of vinegar combined. The room was identical to the office in dimensions, though its main décor was a leather couch and matching chair instead of a huge desk and table. There was also a flat-screen TV tucked inside a cherry armoire against the wall. A matching cabinet stood at its side, half its size. It was the source of the music. Speakers were built into the sides and its top was slid open, revealing two old analog radio dials and a vinyl record spinning on a turntable.
Dad stomped on the old vacuum’s foot pedal, ending the screeching motor’s misery. He grabbed a hot pink feather duster and stretched his arm high above the heavy cream curtains, scattering
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