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)
“We close in four minutes.”
My correction is quietly muttered, “Five.”
“It was five minutes when I parked.” He emotionlessly flicks a finger to the clock on the wall. “Four now.”
“Your truck says you’re open twenty-four hours,” she snaps on a harsh stomp of the foot. “I can read, asshole.”
“Which is surprising,” Nolan unreluctantly jabs back.
“He uh…he just means…we get a lot of out of towners who seem to struggle with that…that…concept when it comes to…our…uh…services. I’m Kipp, by the way. Kipp Woods.” I attempt to clean my greasy palm by rubbing it on my stained light gray shirt before extending it in her direction. “You?”
“Cash,” my best friend states upon his arrival beside me.
“Huh…” Confusion causes me to instantly quirk an eyebrow. “Like Johnny?”
“Like she doesn’t exist, Kid.”
“But she does exist.” My eyes help themselves to another sweep of her curves that could make a classic Corvette Stingray do a doubletake. “And she’s fucking beautiful.”
Nolan grumbling his disapproval is easy to ignore thanks to her bashfully blushing. “Very smooth, Casanova.”
“More like Caranova,” I poorly flirt.
“Bunny,” she sweetly announces at the same time she shakes my hand. Almost instantly afterward she shoots the man beside me a glare. “Yes, it’s my real name. No, it’s not a nickname.” Her palm falls defensively to her hip. “And if one of you makes any sort of joke related to Bugs or Babs or Playboy, I will bear mace you and eat a Kit Kat bar like a fucking carrot while waiting for you to go blind.”
Alright.
She’s hostile.
Question is…was she like this pre or post my best friend picking her up.
Nolan does his best not to smirk at the same time he braces his arms on the counter. “Towing services are twenty-four seven. Mechanic services are eight to five Monday through Friday and ten to four on Saturdays. Closed on Sundays.” He cocks his head in a condescending fashion. “Guess the F in Friday today stands for fucked.”
“Are you always this sunshiney?”
“Yes,” I answer in a small airy chuckle. “And he starts drinking at five to not get grumpy.”
This time it’s her who smirks.
“Since we can’t get you in today-”
“Won’t.”
“How about we store your car free of charge until the morning?” It’s impossible to keep hope out of my voice. “Will that help?”
Frustration I couldn’t recognize more if it bitch slapped me in the face has her flinging loose strands away from her dark eyes. “Fine.”
“You mean thank you,” Nolan practically growls.
“I mean lower my car from its flat prison to the driveway, so that I can crawl into the backseat for the night.”
Consternation and dread battle for reign in my stomach prompting me to practically bark, “You can’t sleep in the backseat of your fucking car.”
“I don’t think I was asking, Codename: Kids Next Door.”
“But-”
“And I don’t think I need your permission.”
“No, but-”
“And I’ve done the shit before.” Both hands slam on the counter space prompting me to jump back in surprise. “And it looks like I’m about to fucking do it again.”
Chapter 4
Bunny
How is it I always get myself into bullshit?
Without trying.
Having to pee at a carnival only to nearly get kidnapped by a carny who thought I’d follow him to his van for a teddy bear?
Not trying.
Getting my bag confiscated by airport security only to find out it wasn’t my bag and the new to the job agent had tagged it by mistake?
Not trying.
Innocently fleeing from a stalker in the middle of the night who has made my life a living hell for the past three years?
Not. Trying.
You know most of the women I’ve crossed paths with in my life summon the fucked-up shit to them. They drink too much or shop too much or do too many mushrooms. They invite problems into their lives because they don’t wanna deal with something, which is way different than trying to deal with something and failing.
For instance, filing a police report only to have it get “lost”.
Filing another in a different city only to have the same thing occur.
Requesting a restraining order in a different state only to be told nothing can be done because there’s no proof that I’ve been assaulted or threatened or victimized.
I guess the photos of the mutilated cat whose corpse was used to make the words “I” and “You” out of it’s heart and blood, are just totally normal things my chick acquaintances over the years have forgotten to tell me while sharing their shittiest one nightstands and streaming network passwords.
Doodling the word “fuck” on the side of my shoe is suddenly summoned to a halt courtesy of the cutie tapping on the window to my backseat.
Ugh.
To be honest, he’s not cute.
His mannerisms and goofy boyish grin are cute.
The rest of him?
Can we say magically delicious?
Unkempt black hair, blindingly bright blue eyes, cut jaw, strong neck, the type of frame stacked enough to play something like soccer or swimming yet not so slender you could use him to pick steak from your teeth, are just a recipe for bending me over the hood of this car – that he demanded get parked in the closed garage for my protection – and showing me how good you really are with your hands.