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)
“Is your brother married?” I asked.
“No,” she said, the sound clipped.
That, it seemed, was me pressing on a wound.
So I let it drop as I matched her stride until she was heading toward the steps of the subway platform.
“Why didn’t we just take the truck?”
“Because that truck should be hidden away from view for the time being,” she said, looking back at me like I was an idiot for not realizing that.
The worst part was that she wasn’t exactly wrong. I’d brought it because I thought there might be the need for a quick getaway.
I said nothing as I jogged down the steps with her, then moved with her toward the edge of the platform while she glanced down the tunnel, her foot tapping impatiently on the ground.
Something must have caught her peripheral vision, because the next thing I knew, she was grabbing me, turning with me, my arms instinctively going to her forearms, holding onto her as she literally moved me out of the way just in time to get out of the way of two assholes fighting.
If they’d hit me, I would be down on the fucking tracks.
“Christ,” I swore, heart pumping even if the danger was gone.
“Have you had your eyes checked recently?” Saylor asked, her hands still holding onto me as she squinted up at me. “Peripheral and everything?”
“My eyes are fine,” I admitted. “I just have… bad luck,” I said, shaking my head at the phrase. “Shot, stabbed, shot, major car accident, nearly had my throat slit by my barber…”
“Coffee to the chest, car door to the head…” she filled in for me.
“Exactly,” I agreed, exhaling hard. “It used to be a running joke in the family. Now I think everyone thinks I’m cursed or some shit.”
“I use the subway like four to ten times a day, every single day, and I’ve never almost been pushed onto the tracks, so they might be onto something,” she said. Only then did she realize she was still holding onto me, dropping me like I’d burned her as one of the guys knocked the other on his ass, then took off at a dead run.
I was slower releasing her, so she yanked away and turned, then took several steps away.
It was as we were stepping into the subway car that I realized I’d left my jacket back at her mother’s gym.
A small smile tugged at my lips at the idea of having another excuse to see her again if, for some reason, after this meeting, she decided we didn’t need to work together anymore.
“Try not to laugh at his alpaca haircut,” Saylor warned as she raised her hand to knock on the door.
“Hey!” a young guy answered the door, his hair flopping anytime he moved. And, honestly, I wouldn’t have even thought twice about it if it hadn’t been for her warning. But now with the mental image of a fucking alpaca going on, it was taking every fucking thing I had not to bust out laughing. “I got something special cooking for you,” the kid declared.
“Let me guess… pizza rolls,” Saylor said as she invited herself inside.
“Specialty ones,” the kid declared, bouncing on his feet.
“I’m almost afraid to ask what that might mean,” she admitted.
“They’re orange chicken!” he declared, beaming at her.
She wasn’t made of stone, it seemed, because some of her ice thawed at his enthusiasm. “That’s nice of you,” she said. “Anthony, this is Keith. Keith, this is Anthony—“
“Costa,” Keith cut her off as he thrust an arm out to me, eager in everything he did, it seemed. He shook my hand like I was some sort of fucking celebrity or something. “Know all about you, man,” he said, nodding enthusiastically.
“That’s… troubling,” I decided.
“All good things! Well, mostly. What’d you do to your head? Big, scary guy?” he asked, enthusiastic likely because his video games made violent scenarios seem fun.
“Yeah, two-ton, at least,” Saylor said, shooting me an amused look. “Anyway. The Czechs—where are you going?” she asked as Keith rushed past her, away from his desk, and closer to his makeshift kitchen.
“The rolls,” Keith declared, rushing to open his toaster oven, then taking out the rolls to place them evenly in three separate bowls.
“He portioned some for you too,” she said under her breath.
“Lucky me,” I agreed just as quietly.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” Keith asked when we didn’t immediately dive in.
“For them to cool,” Saylor said. “Trust me, you don’t want to give this guy anything hot. With his luck, he’ll get third-degree burns in his mouth.
“Oh, right. Right. How’s your dog?” Keith asked, making his way to his desk chair, but swiveling it to face us as he poked a roll into his mouth.
“She’s fine.”
“What did you name her?” he asked. When she didn’t immediately answer, his eyes went buggy. “You didn’t name her yet?” he exclaimed, seeming genuinely offended by the idea.