Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“I think this is one of those ‘better you than me’ sort of situations,” she said, dunking another fry.
“Is that good?” I asked, eyeing my ketchup as I picked at my fries.
“Try it,” she said, waving at the milkshake as she set her focus on her chicken instead.
“I’ve been eating fries wrong my whole life,” I declared as the tastes combined to something unexpected and delicious.
“That’s the only way I like chocolate,” she told me. “But you can’t knock disco fries. Or pizza fries either. Really, you just can’t go wrong with a fried potato, period.”
“The only way you like chocolate?” I asked, dubious. “Cake? Chocolate bars? Cookies?”
“White cake, gummy candies, and oatmeal cookies,” she said.
“Huh,” I said, thinking of my own addiction to chocolate.
“What?” she asked.
“Chocolate is the only way to keep my sister Mira from ripping off my face sometimes,” I admitted.
“Same thing works for me with gummy fish or Twizzlers,” she admitted.
“Do you have any sisters?” I asked, suddenly enjoying this conversation, and wanting to keep it going. Even if we weren’t talking about work anymore.
“No,” she said, but the clipped way she said it and the flash of pain that crossed her eyes said that question struck some sort of nerve. And nothing about her body language invited me to ask more.
“So, what’s your next move?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“With the Czech guys? You obviously can’t stake them out again now.”
“Thanks to you,” I said.
“I would apologize, but I’m not sorry for saving my own ass,” she said, pushing away her empty plate of chicken, and digging back into the waffles. There were no signs of her slowing down, either.
“I’m not sure what the next move is yet. Haven’t had time to think on it too. What about you?”
“If the whole ‘wait for you guys to kill them off’ thing doesn’t go through?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“I’m not sure yet either. I could have probably taken on three of them. But you said six. And I don’t feel confident about that. Gotta think on it. Put out some more feelers about them.”
“How about we compare notes?” I asked before I could think better of it.
“What do you mean, compare notes?”
“We’re both working against the same people. Have a somewhat common goal. We can share information. Help each other out.”
“Want to look good to your boss, huh?” she asked, head tipped to the side, watching me.
“Yeah,” I admitted, shrugging. The truth was the truth.
She sat back, taking a deep breath as her hand hovered over her final onion ring.
“I’ll agree to one more meet-up,” she said. “Then we can decide where to go from there.”
A loner by nature and in business, I had to understand her reluctance to get too tied up with someone else. Even if my crew were, by nature, the kind who worked together.
“Okay,” I agreed. “When? Where?”
“Figure we can take tomorrow off to chase down some leads. Then meet the next day.”
“I’m good with that,” I agreed. “Where?”
Wiping her fingers on her napkin after shoving the whole last onion ring in her mouth, she gave me gimmie fingers. “Give me your phone,” she demanded.
I handed it over after I unlocked it, watching as she typed in her number, then called herself from my phone to plug mine in as well.
“I will text you an address,” she told me, then asked the waitress for the bill.
“And if I’m busy?”
“You get unbusy,” she said, stealing the last few fries off of my plate, then starting to slide out of the booth.
Alright then.
Things were going to be on her terms.
Somehow, I was more than a little okay with that.
Except, of course, her trying to pay the bill.
I reached over her shoulder, plucking it out of her hand, and passing it to the server at the register.
“What do you think—“ she started, but I ignored her objections as I slid money to the waitress. “Keep the change,” I told her, watching her brighten at having a solid thirty-dollar tip on a dead shift.
“Is this a problem too?” she asked, leaning against the door, holding it open for me.
“Nope,” I said, grabbing it over her head, then waving for her to keep moving. “No problem at all.”
“So the whole ‘mobsters are gentlemen’ thing is not all bullshit, huh?” she asked.
“Depends on the guy, I guess,” I said, placing a hand behind her back, but not quite touching her.
“What are you doing?”
“Guiding you back to the truck,” I explained.
“Why?” she asked, suspicious.
“To give you a ride home.”
“I can walk.”
“I’m sure you can. But I’m still going to drive you.”
“I have to go walk my dog first.”
“I got time,” I said, walking her toward the truck. “No ulterior motive here,” I said as she eyed me when I opened the passenger door for her. “We have a common goal here. It’s in my best interest to make sure some pissed off Czech guy doesn’t gun you down on your way home.”