Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I cut the engine and let the silence sink in. Inhaling, I caught the usual Mississippi combo: mud, wet moss, and regret marinating in fish guts. I exhaled, but the night didn’t care. It still pressed in on me. Not ready to go inside, I did what any insane dude would do when he was avoiding life: I called Madison.
No answer. Yep, seemed accurate.
Then I shot her a quick text, half expecting it to be read this time instead of left to rot like the rest of my messages.
ME: You asleep?
The response came instantly.
WIFEY: YEP.
Damn. That yep hit different. Did I love this passive-aggressive Madison? If a side of sex came with it, I’d love her all night long.
ME: Reach out to Tex. Please.
I muttered as I typed the next message, “You could get through to him when the rest of us couldn’t.”
WIFEY: K. Calling him now.
I leaned back in the seat as if I’d won the Lotto. Momma said not to awaken love too soon? But love seemed more agreeable. And I was a man. Maybe Madison was tired as hell, or a little confused, so she answered. Maybe she missed me. I’d believe the latter.
ME: Before you call Tex … What you wearing?
WIFEY: Hmmm. because I acquiesce to all your requests, you’re trying it, Wash?
ME: Yep. Shoes or barefoot? Fuzzy pajamas with words? Not saying that no words are sexier, but you got a grown man planning his whole night around you. Details pls.
ME: Or pic
ME: Pics always work
I’d shot off those texts faster than the Triangle handed out hush puppies. Now I was sitting here holding my breath, and it was like the river itself was holding its breath with me. Both hands clutched the phone, ready for the type of action I only wanted from my wife.
I imagined her smirking or maybe replying with a Boy Bye emoji.
WIFEY: Just a sec. Sending a pic. Since your high-maintenance ass shaded my jailhouse pjs, I’ma show you something Your Honor Soul Glow.
I responded with a thumbs-up. The best selection in this case. I didn’t need more tangible proof of my desperation.
As I waited, my fingers tapped the steering wheel. I counted the specks that hit the window as the rain started. And then the phone went black.
Minutes later, it was raining hard enough for the sky to fall out when a notification popped up.
My woman had come through.
mad
. . .
Nights sucked. I had learned to wake when my dreams involved an airplane. But tonight, I hadn’t even fallen asleep yet.
Washington texted me about Texas while I was job hunting. Where was his little brother, the bad twin? I’d heard him called that so many times. And even before I knew how names could ruin a person, I’d connected to Texas. Dude was funny.
But now Washington wanted me to text him a picture of myself. As if.
“Okay, Tex,” I murmured into the air, “I’ll call you in a little while. For now, I’m going to play with your brother. Hope you don’t take offense. You taught me how to laugh my ass off, little brother.”
I typed a quick message to Washington.
ME: Just a sec. Sending a pic. Since your high-maintenance ass shaded my jailhouse pjs, I’ma show you something Your Honor Soul Glow.
I fully intended not to respond to him after this. But I’d see how long he’d wait it out and maybe laugh if he texted me another emoji besides this silly thumbs-up, which wasn’t giving him any brownie points. Dude didn’t seem that interested.
So, the answer was no.
I returned to my MacBook and read aloud a job title that might be a good contender.
“Glass Coach for Corporate Team Building?” My gaze cruised over to the bottom portion of the ad again. The company’s name remained withheld until a few chosen applicants passed the first round of interviews. But the price tag kept me reading about this exclusive cloak-and-dagger CEO mess. “Let me get this straight? All the Kevins in the money laundering world at Mob Investments Inc. are going on their annual retreat? Obvi. But this time they’d bond over a hazardous craft?”
Maybe it sounded like a good idea. As long as their mafioso clientele didn’t join. Or again, if imaginary Kevin, who almost burned down his kitchen making popcorn, didn’t panic while I taught him the art of working with molten glass.
Flinching at the thought of first-degree burns, I shook the hypothetical nightmare from my mind. The hefty commission rate wasn’t gonna have me roasted in a house fire or stuffed in the trunk of a Lincoln. Hard pass.
I scrolled again. The Messages icon on my MacBook, connected to my iPhone, caught my eye. Only a minute had passed, so Wash must’ve assumed I was glamming myself up for him. A whole wardrobe change. From shabby sweats to teensy silk teddies. Boy, please.