Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
"Got a skip," he told me, and I could actually hear the greed in his voice.
"For?"
"Two-hundred-fifty."
Two-hundred-fifty-thousand.
With my ten-percent cut, that put me at a good twenty-five-grand.
I could take a few months off, get back to work on my real life's mission. I had been neglecting it for too long because bills had to be paid; my stomach needed to be filled.
"What's he running from?"
"First degree."
"With a two-fifty bail?" I asked, dubious.
"She was eighteen. It was ugly." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Made her really suffer first."
Geoff had my number, knew my Achilles' heel.
He knew I loved chasing down scumbags.
Not just the guy who took down a fellow gang member or got into a fight over a girl or embezzled company money.
No.
I liked the cases where the guy was extra wicked, had crimes that meant they should have never been granted bail in the first place.
I lived for getting those shitheads off the street.
With maybe a little more force than necessary.
"Where?"
"He has some contacts in AC."
"What kind?"
"The fuck am I paying you for if I have to do all the legwork?"
Judging solely on his waistband, the man hadn't done anything resembling legwork in a decade. And that bastard once told me I was getting fat, that I should lay off the hamburgers and add some more cardio into my routine.
"You at least got a file for me this time, or am I going to be waiting at a fucking Staples in AC later?"
"The one with the mouth should have it by the time you get here."
The one with the mouth used to be called The one with the blow job lips until I told him to knock it off. Nevermind that her name was Pam which was remarkably easier to say than both the monikers he attached to her.
"I'll be over in twenty. I just need to repack."
"Twenty minutes to repack? What do you think this is some beauty..."
I hung up, dragging out the repacking process until my coffee was finished. And maybe to spite Geoff before running down to throw my crap into the trunk, going inside the front to clear out the endless fast food and granola bar wrappers, taking the short trip to the garbage on the corner.
I didn't see him.
Didn't even think to pay attention, my mind in work-mode, in ready-to-make-half-a-years-salary-in-a-few-weeks mode.
So when I slammed my door and reached to press the engine button, my heart flew up into my throat when I heard a voice in my car with me.
"So, where we going?"
I had a forearm to his throat, pinning him back into the headrest before I realized who it was.
"You!"
"Me," he agreed, giving me a warm smile despite the fact that I was still mostly cutting off his air supply.
"I could have killed you," I told him, eyes squinting small at his still-present smile.
"Not like this, ya couldn't," he informed me. And, worse yet, he was right. I didn't have enough leverage to really do damage. He could have easily stopped me if he knew what he was doing. Which, judging by the confidence when he spoke, he likely did.
If that didn't hurt a girl's pride a bit...
"No," I agreed, releasing his throat as my left hand closed around a handy thing I always kept in the little pocket on my door, pulling it out, and pressing it against his carotid. "But I could like this," I told him as the edge of the screwdriver pressed in slightly.
"Throws the cops off, huh?" he asked, unconcerned about the tip of the screwdriver which required a lot less force than you'd think to sink into someone's body cavity.
"What?" I snapped, curious, and annoyed that I was. Every moment he wasted, I was losing more of a trail that led to a twenty-five-k payday.
"Say ya get pulled over. In a car like this, I'd guess for speedin'. They ask ya if ya have weapons in the car since ya got that look to ya. Ya ask if a screwdriver counts. Or, I bet, there is a hammer under yer seat. They say it's a gray area, but let ya go with yer ticket, seeing no need to search yer car. Which I bet is full of weapons."
"Alright. You're good. But I'm late. So get out."
"Nah," he said casually, reaching back for his seatbelt, confidently clicking it into place.
"What do you mean Nah This isn't a choice. Get out of my car."
"Rather stay."
"And I'd rather be on some island somewhere getting served tequila by one guy while getting served by another. But here I am. Life is full of disa-fucking-pointments. Get out. I need to get to work."
"I'll tag along. Give ya some pointers."
"Pointers. You don't even know what I do."
"Nope. But I bet I'd be good at it."
"Jesus Christ, you're cocky."
"Ain't braggin' if ya back it up." He turned to me, those deep eyes of his light, dancing, like he was enjoying this. And why shouldn't he be? He wasn't the one running late. "Be faster if ya just hit the road. Kick me out when we get to yer destination."