Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
"What about you? You haven't met a man all these years? One that made you regret marrying Che when you were a kid?"
"My lifestyle isn't really conducive to relationships. But even then, no. I wouldn't regret it. I think... oh, um, you have a tortoise in your kitchen," I informed McCoy, watching the massive thing scoot out from under the kitchen table. "How does a tortoise get in the house?" I wondered aloud as McCoy looked over.
"Remy. Remy is how all the animals get in the house," McCoy explained, walking over to the back door, and opening it up, making the tortoise slowly change directions. "He usually lives outside, but Remy said he's seen coyotes around lately, and they can attack and eat tortoises, apparently. Add that to the list of shit I never thought I would need to know in my life," he said, bobbing his head impatiently side to side as the tortoise made his way out the door and into the morning sunshine.
"The dogs are probably good protection, though," I mused.
"They'd help you steal the fucking TV," McCoy told me, shaking his head as he closed the door. "Don't get me wrong, I don't mind the dogs. Even the damn cats who claw the shit out of me are fine. Just thinking we will run out of room for all the animals eventually. Speak of the devil," he said, making me turn to see Remy moving into the kitchen trailed by five dogs, and with a parrot riding on his shoulder. "I put Donatello outside," he said as Remy went into the fridge, grabbing a plastic container of mixed greens.
"Thanks. Here, can you..." Remy said, taking the parrot off his shoulder, and putting it on mine before taking his dogs out the back door.
"Who's a pretty girl?" the bird asked, clearly talking about herself even as she raised her foot to grab at my hair.
"Well, she isn't wrong," Che said, coming into the kitchen, lifting the parrot off my shoulder, and settling her over on some sort of play stand in a corner where she proceeded to lose her mind over some wooden toy hanging there. "Making friends with the local wildlife," he said, giving me a smile.
"I've never even touched a parrot before," I admitted. "We weren't allowed to have any pets growing up. Not that we could have afforded one if we had been allowed. This is kind of nice," I admitted, watching a cat leap from the top of the fridge to the counter behind McCoy, reaching up to bat at his long hair.
It wasn't long before the cat managed to scratch its nails along his shoulder, getting a resigned sigh out of McCoy.
"You guys heading to Arty's?" he asked.
"Yeah, as soon as Sass is ready."
"That's my cue," I said, giving McCoy a small smile. "It was nice meeting you officially," I told him, watching him salute me with his mug before heading back upstairs.
I hemmed and hawed my outfit for an embarrassingly long time. I wasn't even sure when the last time I worried about such inconsequential things was. In general, I dressed for efficiency and comfort, especially if I was working.
In the end, I'd chosen dark wash capris and a light pink boho top with a deep scoop neck bust. It was the most feminine thing I owned, and I tried not to analyze why that was what I'd picked.
"You about ready to..." Che started, trailing off when he turned to look at me, his gaze sliding over my body before settling again on my face.
"Go," I supplied, giving him a smile. "Yes."
With that, we were off back toward Miami.
Whoever this Arty person was, he lived in a sketchy area of town down some side street and next to an Indian restaurant.
"Maybe he's not home," I said after Che had knocked for a couple minutes. I had my back to the door, scanning the street for any signs that someone had seen us, had followed us.
"He never goes anywhere," Che said, reaching for the knob, cursing under his breath when it turned in his hand.
"Aren't you going to get your gun out?" I asked, stiffening.
"No. He's not hurt or anything. He's just careless," Che told me, moving inside, expecting me to follow.
To call this man's home and office space a sty would likely be an insult to pigs.
I mean, I had pretty low expectations for men when it came to decor and actual cleanliness. I'd known a guy who didn't own a single cleaning spray. Not one. Which only made my stomach turn over thinking that his surfaces had never been cleaned. Not even after having raw meat or something on them. I'd gotten out of there without getting salmonella or some flesh-eating virus, and promptly lost his number.
But Arty's place was worse.