Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 122896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 614(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 614(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
“Where’s Fletch when we need him?” Rez asked. “He probably didn’t do his ridiculous pregame routine.” He twisted his face and flapped his arms around, almost spilling his beer as he emulated Fletch that time they caught him doing his superstitious ritual. Now the state trooper only did it where no one could see him.
“Guess it’s not so ridiculous if you think it helps,” Monty huffed and shook her head.
Finn grabbed his phone from the cushion next to him. He texted their VP:
Hey, asshole! Did you do your Steeler’s pregame ritual? If not, you better do it. They’re playing like they belong in the Pee Wee League!
The reply came within thirty seconds.
Like I’m going to fucking tell you that. I don’t want to be blamed for this embarrassing loss.
Finn quickly texted back:
Too late. Your fault. You didn’t do it because you’re embarrassed to look like an idiot in front of the FBI.
You mean Nova, you dumb fuck?
Fletch’s response had Finn growling as he tossed his phone back onto the couch and shouted, “Don’t fucking run it! Pass it! Pass! Pass! Nooooooo!”
“Yo, arm-chair coach, you’re going to burst a blood vessel and I don’t want to have to replace you on the task force,” Crew yelled as he emerged from the room where their executive committee met.
“Were you upstairs?” Axel asked him.
“Yeah, I was checking to see who’s up there already since we have a task force meeting.”
“And?” Decker asked.
Crew answered, “Powers is up there transcribing some calls and Torres is listening to some dirty talk.”
“Dirty talk?” Monty asked, her dark eyebrows raised. “I should’ve become a cop. That sounds like fun.”
“He’s listening in on wiretaps. It can be boring as fuck. In fact, ninety-nine percent of the time it’s a snooze fest.”
“Transcribing those fucking calls are even worse,” Nox mumbled.
“We’re all taking turns doing it,” Crew said. “Because, yes, it fucking sucks.”
“Anyone else up there?” Rez asked.
“Not yet. Reynolds, Butler and Rodgers can’t make it. Kruger and Mullins will be here after the game.”
“Yeah, that was dumb to schedule a meeting on a Sunday,” Finn told the task force leader.
“It was actually smart.” Crew tapped his finger against his temple. “How many of us are already here on Sunday? If not for a club run, then for football?”
Finn couldn’t argue that point, so he didn’t. Instead, he downed the rest of his beer and watched the next play.
And of course the Steelers got a penalty! When he whipped his empty beer can, it pinged off the TV, leaving some splatter behind.
“Hey!” Monty yelled at him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Nox asked.
Jamison shook his head. “You want to replace that monster out of your own pocket?”
“This season is fucked!” Finn yelled in frustration.
“It’s only the first game of the regular season. You know it takes them a bit to get their shit together,” Crew reminded him.
“Yeah,” Decker agreed. “They’re always better the second half of the game and the second half of the season. It’s the Steelers way.”
It sure seemed to be. They always spiked his blood pressure.
“Aww shit. Better straighten your asses up,” Rez announced. “The old guard just walked in.”
“That means little ears are in the building,” Jamison reminded them.
“They’re almost twelve, Jamison. And they’re around bikers all the time, especially since you live in a neighborhood full of them. You don’t think they hear worse shit than what we say?” Decker asked.
“But you all are supposed to be upstanding citizens,” their president reminded them with a completely straight face.
Not one person in that room didn’t laugh.
Even Mitch Jamison chuckled as he escorted his grandchildren into the common area. “I wish it was different, but it isn’t. They might hear it but that doesn’t mean they can repeat it until after they’re eighteen. It’s the Jamison family law.”
“Eighteen? Good luck with that,” Nox grumbled.
“Hi, Dad!” Laney ran up to her father and practically tackled him. “How was work?”
Jamison wrapped his arms around his twelve-year-old daughter, squeezed her tight and planted a kiss on the top of her head. When he straightened, he smiled down at her. “Work.”
She giggled and pulled free, then fist-bumped Crew on her way over to throw herself on the couch next to Monty, grabbing the potato chips from the table and shoving her hand deep into the open bag.
Hell, those chips were probably stale. Finn had no idea how long they’d been sitting out on the table with the bag gaping open. Around there it could be weeks.
“Grandpa was yelling at the radio on our way over here,” Laney stage-whispered to Monty, then pulled out a fistful of greasy BBQ chips and shoved them into her wide-open mouth, orange crumbs falling all over her shirt and clinging to her lips.
“I’m not surprised,” Monty stage-whispered back, giving her a wink.
“Liam, are you going to come give your old man a hug hello?” Jamison asked his son.