Series: Sean Moriarty
Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 113805 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113805 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Licking his lips, my uncle glares at his empty glass before he notices the tray. Giving a grunt of approval, he drops the empty glass on the tray and picks up a fresh one.
“You’re a good man, Stewart,” my uncle says.
Smiling with pleasure, the bald man walks over to me.
Lowering the tray for me, Stewart offers me a glass of champagne and a glass of milk.
His voice soft with a touch of embarrassment, he says, “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what the little one can have.”
Given my current mood, it’s on the tip of my tongue to say he certainly can’t have champagne.
But this man has done nothing to me.
He doesn’t deserve to be treated that way.
Especially not for trying to do something nice for me.
I slap on a smile knowing it probably looks fake as fuck and say instead, “It’s okay. I appreciate it but no thank you.”
Lord knows I could use a drink myself but I don’t need to be rocking a buzz when Abel and I finally leave here.
Uncle Mickey snorts and takes a sip of his scotch.
“Are you sure?” Stewart asks, lingering by my shoulder.
My smile tightening, I say, “I’m sure.”
Stewart looks to my uncle like he needs permission to back off.
Mickey nods his head and waves his hand at him.
All the golden rings on his thick fingers glinting in the light as he does so.
Noticing the rings, I scowl at him.
Broke, my ass.
He’s just being cheap. Not wanting to help me simply because he won’t get anything out of it.
If he was truly broke, he’d be out on the street or in a shelter. He wouldn’t be able to pay Stewart. He wouldn’t be keeping the lights on to meet with clients.
“Two hundred isn’t enough,” I say, bringing the argument up again.
Willing to annoy the shit out of him until he gives me more or a better alternative.
The least he can do is point me in the right direction. He has to know someone somewhere that will hire me.
As much as I hate to admit it, Mickey’s my only hope. I have no other plans or options. If I walk out of here empty-handed, we’re truly fucked.
“Two hundred?” Stewart says in confusion, stopping between me and my uncle. “The Petrov job pays half a mil.”
Uncle Mickey starts to choke on his scotch.
Ignoring his sputtering and choking, I practically hiss, “Petrov job?”
“You know you haven’t been able to find anyone to fit the part. She would be perfect,” Stewart adds, oblivious to the way my uncle is glaring daggers at him.
Face growing darker and darker, Uncle Mickey coughs out, “Goddammit, Stewart!”
Then he throws his glass at him.
The glass sails harmlessly past Stewart, shattering against the wall a couple of feet away from his head.
But the small explosion nearly throws me into a flashback of what Kyle did to me.
Stewart looks at where the glass shattered then back to my uncle. “What?”
“You fucking idiot!” Mickey bellows then bends over, caught in another coughing fit.
As my uncle thumps on his chest, trying to bring the scotch up, I focus on Stewart. “Tell me about this Petrov job.”
Stewart looks at the broken glass, my uncle, then me. Torn between what to do.
“Please,” I plead, letting my eyes fill up with all the desperation I feel.
I need this job, whatever it is. Half a million dollars could set Abel and me up for a few years. We could get the hell out of Garden City. We could move somewhere safer and nicer.
Somewhere where Kyle won’t be able to find us.
The expression on Stewart’s face softens. “It’s an easy job, honestly. I don’t know why it’s such a big deal. You just need to watch a few guys and report back with their location.”
“You!” Uncle Mickey chokes out then tries to stand up from the couch only to drop right back down on his ass.
Stewart looks at Mickey in alarm. “I’ll get you some water…”
Eyes bloodshot, bulging, and full of murder, Uncle Mickey watches Stewart creep out of the room.
If looks could kill, Stewart would be dead.
I have no doubt of it.
But it’s not my problem.
“I want the Petrov job,” I say, bringing my uncle’s attention back to me.
His head snaps in my direction and the strangest expression passes over his features.
A mixture of pain and fear.
When he shakes his head in refusal, thumping on his chest some more, I decide to go straight for the throat.
Unwilling to take no for an answer.
“If you don’t give me this job, Abel and I will probably starve to death. Do you want our blood on your hands? Can you live with that?”
Uncle Mickey shakes his head in refusal yet again, and it’s everything I can do not to scream at him.
Is there nothing human left inside him?
Bursting through the kitchen door, Stewart rushes back into the room with a glass of water and something tucked under his arm.