Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
I narrow my eyes at him.
"Yep, exactly like that."
I huff a laugh at how quick-witted the man is and open the passenger side door. "Let's get on with this shit show."
We're four minutes late, and although that's not an insanely disrespectful amount of time, you never know how people will react when their time is wasted.
I scan the parking lot as we make our way to the front door. Nothing seems out of place, except that the vehicles are all older and have as little technology as possible. I imagine the reasoning behind that would be that they feel people could track them if they had newer ones, which is true these days.
Zayne walks in first, his head moving as if it's on a swivel, just like mine is when we step inside.
There's nothing unusual about the inside of the diner. It stinks of old grease, and my feet slide uncomfortably on the dirty floor, making it clear that the traction needed for a quick getaway, if it were necessary, isn't ideal.
There are other people inside, all of them staring us down. I suspect from how they're dressed that they're part of The League. They either frequent the place or they're stationed around in case shit hits the fan and the guy we're meeting needs backup.
I locate the fire exit to one side, knowing there would be another one through the kitchen. The single bathroom is down a short hallway, but I doubt it has a window large enough for either of us to fit through.
I pull in a deep breath, barely holding back a cough as the stagnant air fills my lungs.
It's clear, as every head turns the further we walk inside, that we'd be outnumbered, and that makes me hope that things go the way they need to. I doubt they're supposed to be drawing so much attention to themselves. But even organized groups have trouble training their people to behave the way they're expected when they're all using drugs and have a tendency to be paranoid on a good day.
The guy who showed up unannounced last night is sitting in the far back, at the table nearest the one visible exit. Kudos to him for having the foresight to position himself accordingly. It makes me suspicious of how he thinks this meeting is going to go if he doesn't have the confidence to sit in the middle of the place.
The man watches us as we approach, not saying a word, even when we're standing right in front of him. I hate the way his eyes drift over me, as if he's taking an inventory. It's very reminiscent of the way my adoptive parents would analyze me before we left the house for a function.
My skin crawls as he leans forward, arms outstretched on the table, the long sleeve of his shirt shifting to reveal a racist tattoo.
He sits up straighter, his mouth opening to speak. I can tell by the unimpressed look in his eyes that this is going to go sideways before we even get a chance to take a seat.
"We got stuck behind some fucking liberal asshole from Massachusetts," Zayne says before he can speak. "They kept fucking slowing down to watch a deer on the side of the road as if they'd never seen one before."
"Fucking Yankees," the guy says with a wave of his arm to indicate taking a seat in the booth across from him. "I'm Gene."
Zayne drops into the booth with the heaviness of a man with the crumbling world on his shoulders, and I take a seat across from him, hating with everything in my being having to put my back to everyone else in the diner.
"I'm—"
"I know who you are," Gene says, looking at Zayne first before turning his eyes to me. "Curtis and Lyle."
It's the slightest shift, one Gene doesn't seem to catch, but Zayne stiffens beside me. I don't know whether he didn't expect them to do any research or whether he's worried our cover isn't solid enough.
"Lyle?" the guy says, lip twitching. "You look angry."
I lean forward, knowing what is expected of my personality.
"I don't like being fucking summoned in the middle of the night," I growl. "Now, we show up, you've got an attitude, and then we're sitting here with our backs to the door. How would you feel, Gene?"
I may not have much experience with this group in particular, but I'm not a stranger to fucking assholes in the wild. It would be suspicious if we showed up with fucking smiles and acted too eager to listen to what they have to say.
His grin grows as he sits back, fingers twiddling with an empty straw wrapper.
"You're safe here," he assures me, his smile looking more like a snarl, his teeth yellowed. I swear the guy has a chunk of breakfast attached to his eyetooth.