Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
My dick springs to life, thick as a corn cob and I practically double over like I’ve taken a fist to the gut.
It’s the girl from the shelter. I know it.
I’m fucking losing it. I need to get the fuck out of this town.
In my vision, the girl is smiling and so am I. That’s how I know it’s not real. I never smile.
chapter three
Dietrich
I’m sporting a battering ram of a boner when the car stops outside the two stories of crumbling plasterwork and peeling paint a few blocks from the POS Stratosphere Hotel and Casino.
I consider beating off in the back of the car and leaving that fuck Zeneli a little dried-up DNA, but I need to get this shit sorted and buy back my life.
There will be plenty of time for a one-eyed blast off to visions of sexy, barely legal blondes.
The house attached to the address Greg gave reminds me of where I grew up in Miami, reeking of desperation with its dirt yard and a 1990’s Cadillac Seville in the driveway with red duct tape on the taillights.
I grab the folder with the information I’ve put together on my “daughter” and let myself out of the car.
I’m halfway up the cracked concrete path when Greg bursts out of the front door with his arms as wide as that shit-eating grin on his face.
“Hawk!” He uses my nickname like we pledged Phi Kappa Bullshit together back in the day.
I nod. “Where’s the girl?”
He pats my shoulder, guiding me to the door. “You’re gonna love her. She’s nineteen, has done some stage work, and is the daughter of a very good friend. She’ll do whatever because,” He leans into my ear as I push him away and he finishes in some super, double secret code ring voice, “her father owes me.”
“Fine, but no doe eyes or crocodile tears when I don’t massage her ego.”
“She won’t let you down, man. She’s gonna be fucking Meryl Streep for you,” he replies, cocking a brow on a theatrical mafioso sniff.
The toe of my black Santoni loafer barely touches the first step before a flash of brown fur comes balling out the door, ears pinned back at a dead run.
“Oh fuck.” Greg sticks out his foot, trying to block the furry escape artist. “Hannah is going to kill me for letting that dog out…”
Greg’s too fat to make a move so I spin, and in one long stride, I’ve scooped up the little wiener dog by the belly before he gets pancaked by the garbage truck that’s whizzing by. Lucky for the people that live here, he’s clean, smells good and has a green neon collar embroidered with the house address.
Doesn’t look like I’ll have to dislocate any fingers today.
“Jesus, didn’t think you could move that fast.” Greg scratches his forehead as I step through the door with the dog wiggling in my hand.
I set him down inside and he throws me a lopsided look, wags his tail, then trots across the room and down the hall. “Why’s that?”
“Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a big guy but you got reflexes like a fucking cat.”
I grit my teeth, moving inside as the pounding in my temples intensifies. I brush a twitching finger over my forehead, scanning, checking corners, hallways, absorbing every detail.
Someone with some talent took hold of the decorating. The furnishings are thrift and IKEA but it’s got a warmth and quirky sophisticated style like one of those overpriced boutique hotels in Palm Springs. There’s a bright yellow plastic chair in the corner and a gray mid-century style sofa with cheerful floral pillows against a wall. The buckled and stained wood floor is partially covered with a vintage looking yellow and brown hooked rug.
It’s all very Salvation Army but someone is trying to make this shit hole a home and it gives me an unusual stab of sadness. There’s also this caramel and sugar scent in the air that has my mouth watering.
I wonder if it’s the girl I’m hiring that put in this effort, and if she knows that if she fucks up this weekend, she might get me killed.
Might get her killed too.
I draw a breath through my tight throat and my spine stiffens as I take in more of that sweet and savory scent, as a guy with dirty blonde hair and a spray tan appears in black polyester golf shorts, a blue polo and fake Gucci slides.
With dirty white socks.
I scoff at the caricature, half expecting his eyes to flash with dollar signs like in those old Looney Tunes cartoons.
“Denny Wesley,” he says, jutting an eager hand in my direction.
“Hawk,” I respond, ignoring his offer to shake.
“Denny is the old friend I told you about,” Greg says with that tweaky, excited tone that tells me they need me way the fuck more than I need them. At least, I’ll let them think that. “His daughters are like family to me.”