Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 121728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
“Heard that loud and clear. Ain’t lookin’ to fuck over nobody. ‘Specially myself. Got a kid to take care of.”
“‘Nother benefit to workin’ here is you get food. You can take home whatever’s left over after we close—orders never picked up, whatever—to your kid. He’ll be eatin’ damn good.”
Decker didn’t correct Buster’s assumption that his kid was a boy. And he certainly kept the fact that no kid should be eating pizza or hoagies every damn day to himself. He sure as fuck doubted Buster gave a shit about a growing child’s nutritional needs.
In his household, pizza was saved for a special evening, like movie night. It wasn’t forbidden, but it also wasn’t a staple. Just like sweets, he allowed Val to have it in moderation.
“So, when do I start makin’ these deliveries. Tonight?”
“No. You’re gonna put pizza boxes together tonight. Get a feel of how the business is run, in case you have to fill in at the counter or cleanin’ up in the kitchen.”
“How the fuck am I gonna make money, then?” Decker bitched.
“After we close, gonna give you a twenty outta the till to cover you.” Well, now he knew he was staying until closing time.
But he was only getting paid twenty bucks for over twelve hours of grunt work? Decker opened his mouth to complain about how twenty wasn’t shit, then remembered the feds were actually paying his salary and he couldn’t keep that damn money, anyway.
He had gotten so deep into his character for a moment, he forgot who the fuck he really was.
But still, twenty bucks wasn’t dick. Even for a prospect. “Need to make more than twenty. Rugrats ain’t cheap. How soon do I get to deliver?”
Buster leaned in and locked gazes with him. “When I say you do. Not a fuckin’ minute before. Gotta prove yourself first.”
“By puttin’ together pizza boxes,” Decker ground out.
“Gotta start somewhere. You don’t like it, you can leave your cut here and go home to your fuckin’ boy.”
Chapter Thirteen
Of course he stayed. Until closing, too. And again the same the next night as well as one more after that.
Not that he had a choice in the matter, since it was his job. Not the part about assembling a bazillion fucking pizza boxes—so many that he ran out of a place to stack them—but the undercover officer part. He had to remind himself over and over—every time he grabbed the next unassembled cardboard flat—that was why he stood in the back of a pizza shop, where it was ball-sweating hot due to the grill and pizza ovens, once again doing a job he’d hated to do back when he was sixteen.
His first job had been in a pizza shop similar to Pizza Town. Sans the meth and pot sales, of course. Hell, if he had access to pot while he worked there, he might have liked the job a whole lot better.
At the time, he was just a lanky kid, innocent of all the evils in the world, hoping for the opportunity to meet girls and lose his virginity. Working in the back washing dishes, cleaning the floor and equipment, as well as assembling cardboard boxes, didn’t pan out the way he’d hoped. It was hard to meet girls when one, you were hidden in the back and two, when you weren’t back there, you smelled like you bathed in the deep fryer.
His virginity remained securely intact until he joined a gym at eighteen and began to bulk up. He quickly learned the more muscles he had, the more women’s eyes were drawn to him. So, he’d stand in front of the mirrored walls and flex, pretending not to notice their attention.
One day he was approached by a personal trainer ten years older than him. She taught him many new techniques in the staff locker room and also in her car, including how to locate a woman’s clit and G-spot, and why doing so was so damn important.
A smile curved his lips at that memory. Margot had taught him well. Even better, it added plenty of fun cardio to his intense weight training.
When Decker pulled into the driveway, he noticed that most of the lights in the house were off. He glanced at the clock on the Ford Ranger’s dashboard. He couldn’t imagine Sloane was still awake since it was after eleven. And if she was, she most likely was in his room—her room—watching TV or reading, or whatever single women did late at night by themselves.
He pursed his lips as his imagination quickly nose-dived into the gutter.
After parking inside, he tucked his prospect cut out of sight, grabbed the pizza box from the passenger seat, exited the truck, closed the garage door and stepped into the quiet house. He moved silently through the dark office and hooked a left once he reached the small hallway off the bedroom suite. Since the living room was deserted and dark, he headed directly into the kitchen to put the leftover pizza in the fridge.