Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57406 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 287(@200wpm)___ 230(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57406 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 287(@200wpm)___ 230(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
“No, no, that is fine...the fewer people involved in this the better, right?” I reply.
“Yes, definitely,” he agrees, nodding. “I don't want you discussing our arrangements with Mr. Thor either, Miss Field. We don't want him getting himself killed trying to defend you again, now do we?”
“No, we don't,” I answer. “I won't tell him anything, I promise.” I continue looking him in the eye so he can see I can be trusted on this.
“Good,” he says with a nod.
“Can I ask you one question though?” I ask as we start walking toward the parking lot again.
“Of course,” he replies.
“Why do you want a half pound of product if you’re not wanting to sell?” “Good question,” he answers chuckling. “I will still need the product to hand out to my business associates...Think of it like going to a friend’s house for dinner and taking them a bottle of wine...in my case, pot is more appropriate than wine.” He shrugs.
“Huh...okay,” I reply. “Well, I will make sure your business associates get the best then.” I continue forcing a smile so he can see I want to make sure he is pleased.
“I know you will, Miss Field.” He smirks in return. We are back in the parking lot by his car when all of the men from the back come up behind us, minus Dingo. “It's all done, sir,” one of them says.
“Very good, let’s go then.”
The man who took my phone steps forward and hands me my phone as he reaches for the door handle of the Mercedes.
“Miss Field, I will have my people text you all the details you will need to know. I look forward to seeing you again, but under better circumstances, of course.” Then he gets in the back seat of the Mercedes the stocky guy is holding the door open to. And in a flash both vehicles leave me standing here alone. Shit, Dingo! Taking a deep breath, scared of what I might find, I run back to the picnic table and see Dingo lying on the ground beside it.
“Dingo!” I scream while shaking his shoulder. “Oh no, no, no, please don't be dead,” I cry, shaking his shoulder harder. “I am so sorry this happened, Dingo,” I sob, sitting back on my knees crying. He was an asshole, but he didn’t deserve to die. If he did, Linc would have killed him.
“I knew you wanted me,” I hear him mumble so low that I think I imagined it.
“What?” I say, shocked. Looking down, I see him looking back at me through a small sliver of one of his swollen eyes and a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Fuck!” I scream, pissed. Then hitting him on the shoulder hard, I yell, “I thought you were dead!”
“Ow. Shit! Really, your gonna hit me?” He half chuckles, holding his sides harder.
“Dammit, Dingo, I thought they killed you. You scared the shit out of me!” I yell again.
“I played dead after they started kicking the shit out of me and they fell for it. Dumbasses never even checked to make sure,” he moans in pain.
“Can you call Dylan?” he groans.
“Of course.” I grab my phone from my pocket.
“What’s his number?” I ask, opening the keypad of my phone.
“555-3636,” he mutters, his face pulled into a grimace.
“Hello,” he answers with a raspy voice.
“Dylan?” I answer urgently.
“Yeah?” he responds cautiously, not recognizing my voice.
“This is C, get to the old tire factory on Bentley, Dingo is hurt bad,” I rattle off quickly.
“What happened?”
“Roscoe.”
“Shit…” he mutters quietly.
“You will see my truck in the parking lot, drive past that and come to the side of the building,” I instruct.
“I'm on my way,” he replies.
“Hey, Dylan,” I say quickly before he can hang up.
“What?”
“Don't stop or talk to anyone,” I warn.
“Yeah, I won't. I'll be right there,” he says then he hangs up.
I put the phone back in my pocket. “He's coming,” I tell Dingo.
“Good... C, can you help me put my pants up? I don't want him to see me like this.” Embarrassment laces his voice.
“Yes, sure.” I get up and walk behind him and kneel down on the ground behind him.
“Hey, Dingo,” I say, leaning over him so I can see his face.
“Yeah?” he breathes in pain.
“Your pants are pretty much just as low as you usually wear them already,” I joke, pulling his boxers up to cover his naked, pimply ass.
“You’re a bitch, you know that, C?” He chuckles, then he groans again from the pain.
“Yep, I know,” I laugh back.
“Lift up a little so I can pull your jeans up,” I instruct, tugging on the waistband.
“Ahhh,” he moans in pain, lifting his hips just enough for me to get his jeans up over his hips.
“Got it, you can relax now,” I inform, getting them up as high as I can. Moving back in front of him I ask, “You doing okay?”