Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I do understand her presence, though, because going somewhere new is always a trigger for me, but I’m discovering that desperation has a way of keeping the full-on panic attacks at bay.
However, I seriously doubt that long-term poverty and homelessness is any sort of miracle cure.
“Guess I’ll have to wait and see on that one,” I say to myself.
Pike’s Pawn is in a seedy little strip mall next to a one-pump gas station and a dive bar called Hansen’s. The parking lot of the bar is full of shiny black motorcycles and custom choppers that overflow to the pawn shop. I park in the grass at the end because it’s the only space available. It’s not even seven p.m. and the music and laughter are already loud enough to hear before I’ve even opened my car door. I sigh, and with nothing left to lose I start my count. When I get to nine, I open the door and retrieve the garbage bag of my belongings from the trunk containing everything of value (I hope) I’ve ever owned.
Several bikers dressed in leather cuts leer at me as I enter the pawn shop. My skin breaks out in a sheen of nerves and sweat. The door closes on their gazes and a few whistles. I take a deep breath to calm myself, but I’m losing my nerve. I’m about to turn back around when a young blonde man appears behind the glass display case.
My nerves and my sanity don’t matter. Right now, only money does.
“What can I do you for?” The man asks, appraising me with bright golden eyes. He cracks his knuckles, and the rippling muscles underneath his tight black tank top ripple. He pushes his shoulder-length hair behind his ear and moves the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other. His smile is crooked and cocky, but it suits him. He leans his elbows on the counter. “You gonna show me what you got in that bag, or you just looking for the nearest dumpster? ‘Cause there’s one out back of Hansen’s, but if I were you, I’d steer clear of that place. Not the classiest of joints.” He scratches his scruffy jaw, and I realize I haven’t said a word.
Slowly, I take a few steps toward the counter. On my way, I take in an aisle of musical instruments, a few lamps on a high shelf, a display case filled to the brim with gold and silver belt buckles, and hanging on the back wall, an arsenal of firearms. “No, I don’t need the nearest dumpster. I have some things to sell. Thought you could take a look for me and see if you’re interested.”
“Let me see what you got here…” He pauses and waits for me to introduce myself.
“Lenny, my name is Lenny.”
“They call me Pike. Very nice to meet you,” he says, taking my garbage bag and dumping the contents between us on the counter. He whistles. “You got a lot of nice stuff here, Lenny. Expensive shit, too.” He opens a few of the handbags and checks the linings. “Authentic, too. Don’t see a lot of that around here. Someone’s always trying to pawn off their fake shit. Pun intended.”
He said expensive. A wave of relief washes over me. “So, how much are you thinking?” I ask. “For all of it?”
He looks at my belongings on counter and tilts his head from one side to the other. “Unfortunately, not a damn thing.”
“What?” I ask, confused. “I thought you said—”
“What you got here is valuable, sure, but not to the people of Logan’s Beach. Frankly, people on the other side of the causeway don’t buy used shit, no matter how high-end. They buy new, but something tells me from your fancy outfit and pretty-smelling perfume that you already know that.”
He’s right, I do know that. Shit.
He continues, “And the people on this side are just struggling to make ends meet.” There is a crashing sound from the bar next door, followed by a roar of raucous laughter. Pike chuckles. “Well, and trying to have a good time, of course. Most people in these parts got cars that cost less than…” he sorts through the pile and lifts up one of my most expensive bags. It’s vintage. A gift from my mother. “This one bag.”
“You know your stuff,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment with words. It doesn’t work.
“Enough to know that I can’t help you. But if you’ve got any gold, silver, diamonds, guns, instruments or blow? I’m your man.”
My thoughts go to my jewelry box. My empty jewelry box that I just discovered this morning. Jared had stolen my diamond tennis bracelet and my mother’s silver rosary. Suddenly, I feel sick all over again. “I don’t have any of that. At least, I don’t anymore.”