Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Orson spoke. “But I would.”
I glared at Rex, who stepped out of the way. I pointed the gun at Carlo, making sure my hand was steady as I began to press down on the trigger.
Orson spoke again. “Rex is right, Anthony. You’d regret this before the bullet hit him.”
I dropped my arm and rubbed my face. “Fuck.”
I shoved the gun into my waistband. “I need to get out of here. I need to blow off some steam.” I glared over at Carlo. “Before I blow off someone’s head.”
“Of course, of course,” Orson murmured. “Carlo can take your place for the poker game. You go.”
I looked back at Carlo. His face was impassive, but his subtle wink told me everything.
You’re good.
Go.
Hurry back.
Orson slapped me on the shoulder. “Try not to take out your temper on the ladies, Anthony.”
“Trust me, they aren’t ladies. And if I can’t take it out on him—” I gestured to Carlo “—I’ll take it out on someone.”
He smiled—that smarmy, cold grimace that passed for a smile on him—and shook his head. “Will you be returning this evening?”
I rotated my head on my shoulders, the cracks from my tense muscles echoing in the hall. “Yeah. I don’t need all night.”
His sick, twisted laughter followed me out of the house.
My stand-in was waiting in the restroom when I got to the dive bar. We traded coats—our dark jeans and shirts already similar. I handed him the watch, car keys, and phone, knowing he would only answer it if it was me or Sean calling. Otherwise, it would go to voice mail. I waited a few minutes while he went back to the bar, and I ducked out the rear door, slipping into the waiting car and driving out the back way. I had already seen Orson’s surveillance sitting out front, and I knew in a few moments he’d have a report I was there, drinking and already ensconced in a private room with one of my “regulars.” His men had gotten pretty lax in their security, but that piece of information I kept to myself. They’d be scattered, dead, or in jail a couple of days from now.
I drove around, making sure I wasn’t followed, and then headed to the highway, driving as fast as I was able to. The roads were deserted on an early Wednesday evening, and the one time my radar went off, I had plenty of time to slow down, passing the cop car at barely over the limit. Once I was clear, I pressed my foot down on the accelerator heavily.
I stopped two places. I went into the drugstore and bought every cold remedy item I could think of, filling my basket with tissues, cough syrup, lozenges, tablets, and ginger ale. Then I went to the local Chinese place and got some wonton soup—it was my favorite thing when I was sick, and I thought Skylar might enjoy it. Twice, I tried her cell number, but it went straight to voice mail, which made me worry all the more.
I pulled up to the farmhouse, grabbed the bags, and hurried to the back door, stepping inside. The house sounded empty. Panicked, I dropped the bags, yelling for Skylar as I rushed down the hall.
“Kitten! Baby, where are you?”
She appeared at the door of my room, wrapped in a blanket, her hair all over the place, looking confused and disoriented. Her eyes were dark in her pale face, the red of her nose vivid against the pallor. She gasped and stumbled forward into my open arms, and I pulled her tight to my chest. “Fuck, Skylar. I’ve been so worried. Why aren’t you answering your phone?” I pushed her hair back, frowning at how warm she was. “God, baby, you’re all clammy!”
“My fever broke a little while ago,” she mumbled.
I swept her up in my arms, carrying her back to the bed. It was a mess, the sheets and blankets pulled off. Obviously, her fever had been bad enough to make her restless. Hurrying back to the kitchen, I got the ginger ale, cold tablets, and Tylenol. Back at her side, I helped her take the pills and laid her back on the pillow. She blinked at me, clearing her throat, her voice rough and weary. “What are you doing here, fuckwit?”
I smirked at her. “I brought you soup.”
“Chicken noodle?”
“Better—wonton.”
“I like chicken noodle.”
“Well, if you’d answer your fucking cell phone, I’d know that.”
Her eyes drifted shut. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“It had an accident.”
“What sort of accident?”
“It took a bath.” She inhaled, her breath wheezing. “In the toilet.”
“Oh.”
“I barfed on it and flushed it by accident. I don’t think it survived.”
My mouth twitched, and for the first time in days, I laughed. Big belly laughs that brought tears to my eyes. Only Kitten. Only my Kitten would knock a tiny, disposable cell phone into a toilet, throw up on it, and flush it.