Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Fuck, I could easily make a spreadsheet using events from this past year alone to prove that point.
I cautiously watch the older automobile creep closer, an unfamiliar sense of dread being drudged up each time the tires roll across the barely paved path. It stops far enough ahead of me to be clearly visible as the person gets out yet not close enough to be of any actual help.
And given the unclear weapon the middle-aged male grabs from the flatbed of his truck before heading my direction, I get the feeling helping me isn’t at all what he intends to do.
Chapter 2
Nolan
Another day, another brat stuck in the mud because mommy and daddy didn’t teach them any fucking survival skills.
Probably shouldn’t complain.
Towing keeps the shop open just as much as fixing their foreign piece of shits do.
Not that I hate all foreign cars.
Just most.
A lot like people.
Bracing the wood planks against my broad shoulder, I unhurriedly stroll in the direction of the black Benz stuck right off the main road while fighting the urge to smile.
If The Kid was with me, he’d be rambling off its damn specs by now.
Year.
Horsepower.
Top speed.
Torque.
Weight.
Grip.
Dimensions.
Best tires.
Recommended maintenance schedule.
How the damn thing he’s never driven handles dry versus wet land.
Kid’s practically a certified genius when it comes to cars.
He credits getting it from his old man, but the truth is he didn’t.
Yeah, alright, Big K knew some shit about cars.
Afterall, he taught me when I was The Kid’s age now, and The Kid was still playing with Hot Wheels, but the shit Kipp can do? Big K wouldn’t have been able to do that without the help of a Genie and three fucking magic wishes.
May the old drunk bastard get a drop of water in hell.
But only one.
Finally arriving at the driver’s side door of the dirty vehicle, I’m both stunned and not surprised in the same grunt.
Of course, it would be daddy’s little princess.
The thought of it being the second coming of Mother Fucking Teressa never crossed my mind.
However, I can admit that I’m a little taken back by her looks.
Most of the females I cross paths with between here and Crystal Waters – the next city over where even a hunk of people who work in Death Canyon live – are carbon copies made from the same photoshop social media filtered program.
Too shiny.
Too phony.
Too squeaky clean.
At least from first glance this one appears to be made of actual flesh and blood versus injections and bottled water.
Watching her through the window, I prop the boards up and naturally wait for her to speak.
Tell me the obvious fucking problem.
Ask – or beg – for help.
Toss me a little schoolgirl pout accompanied by the typical defenseless damsel bounce that’ll make her boobs jiggle.
Instead?
She just glares.
Taps the pen gently against her full lips in a two rasps pattern.
Stares challengingly into my dark eyes while I stare back curiously into hers.
Okay.
That’s new.
And so is my cock beginning to swell over the idea of swapping places with that writing tool.
“You uh…” my gruff voice does its best to remain unstrained despite stealing a glance of her beautiful brown tits that are pouring out of her wrong season black tank top, “need help or what?”
She opts not to answer the question but to ask her own. “You here to murder me?”
I grunt again this time amused and impressed alike. “No.”
“Rob me?”
“No.”
“Rape me?”
“Fuck no.”
She purses her lips and taps the pen to them again. “What’s with the weapons?”
“They’re wood planks.” Adjusting them is followed by a thoughtless shrug. “I use ‘em for quick mud fixes.”
Her dark eyebrows shift up in question.
“Out of towners have a tendency to get stuck in the mud around here after it rains. Using these things saves us both a lot of time and hassle.”
“You charge them?”
“No.”
“They tip you?”
“No.”
“So…you do it because you’re a good Samaritan?”
“Fuck no.”
“Then why?”
“Because the sooner they get the fuck out of my town, the sooner I can go back to working on shit I actually give a fuck about.”
Once more the younger woman – who’s probably at least ten years younger than me and probably five older than The Kid – catches me off guard. Not only does she smile, it’s genuine.
Not polite.
She shows just enough teeth so that it’s clear they’re all there yet not wide enough to give me a good glance at the piece of jewelry I know is in her tongue.
Been a long time since I’ve seen this much danger wrapped in something this delicious…
It’d be best for us both to get her the hell out of here as quickly and as quietly as fucking possible.
I clear my throat and resume the line of questioning to make that happen. “How long you been stuck?”
“Never said I was stuck.”
“I just assumed.”
“Not a smart thing to do.”
“You mean like you who just assumed I was here to rape, rob, or murder you?”