Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
“There are no stupid questions, May,” Carson says almost gently. “You can ask me anything you want.”
“Anything?” I tease. I’m not ballsy enough to ask some of the questions I want to. Like, Was that kiss good? Did I suck at it? Will you do it again?
“As long as it’s not top secret.”
“Right.” Duh. Now I’m wondering what kind of cool spy stuff he might know. Aliens?
“Only wives get to know those things.” Carson glances over at me. His hand is still holding on to mine, and he winks! Now I wanna ask what the wink means more than the alien stuff, because, of course, aliens are real. I already know that. I mean, I talk to cats.
“It’s about to snow more. Can we flirt later? I hate it when my hair gets wet. I turn into a frizz ball,” Mousey complains.
“I’ll brush you.” I roll my eyes at Mousey. “And we’re not flirting.”
“I’m flirting,” Carson says, not missing a beat.
“Oh.” I lick my lips. “I kind of am. Maybe. I think,” I ramble, not getting any better at this. But when Carson smiles at my answer—or, I suppose, answers—I relax.
“Here.” Carson releases my hand to pull out his phone. “There are tire tracks just off the pavement.” He stops in front of the tracks left in the icy mud. He pulls out a dollar bill, putting it on the ground next to him. I watch with curiosity as he snaps a few pictures with his phone.
“Can you tell something from the tracks?”
"I'll be able to identify the tires and the vehicles they fit, which ones use them most frequently, whether they’re factory. Then we can narrow down the options before we extract the surveillance footage. That will help make it easier to exclude certain vehicles.”
“That’s kinda badass.”
“There’s a gas station about five miles south of here. The city is in the same direction, so I’m guessing they went that way.”
“So we get their surveillance!” I think I’m catching on.
“Yeah.” He gives me another one of his smiles. This particular grin is lopsided, forming small lines beside his eyes. I notice he has different ones.
“Let's go!” I hurry back toward the car. It doesn’t take us long to get to the gas station. As soon as we arrive, Carson receives a response from the person he sent the photos to.
“Wow. Do you have a group of badass friends who can do spy things?”
“Something like that.” He chuckles. I bet he doesn’t think it’s badass. It's normal for him. “I’ll take the lead when we get in there.”
“Right.” I run my hands down my clothes, trying to make sure I don’t have wrinkles and look professional.
“Sitting this one out.” Mousey yawns from the back seat, not moving.
“Do I look okay?” I ask Carson when we get to the door of the gas station. “Professional?”
“You’re fine, babe. It’s going to be a pimple-faced teenage boy.” He rests one hand on my back and uses the other to open the door. When I step inside, my eyes go straight to the boy behind the counter.
“Did your badass friends tell you that?” He nailed the description of the kid behind the counter.
“Nah, we just all have our gifts.” Carson’s eyes case the whole gas station.
“Can I help you with something?” the kid behind the counter asks.
“The cameras outside. I need to see the footage.” Carson’s tone is firm and full of authority.
“Yeah, and I need to get laid.”
Kids these days!
The boy's eyes shift over to me, and he leers. I let out a small gasp and try to step behind Carson, but by the time I do, he’s already in motion. Reaching over the counter, he grabs the kid by his shirt, pulling him halfway over it. It sends a box of lighters and another of mints falling to the floor, scattering in all directions.
I stand there in shock. Carson has a bit of a temper.
Definitely badass.
11
CARSON
The shithead yelps. “I didn’t mean–”
“I don’t need another word out of you, son. Show me where the surveillance footage is. Now.” I shake him a little for emphasis as his eyes bulge.
He opens his mouth then snaps it shut. With a trembling chin, he jerks his head toward the door behind him.
I drop him, and he crumbles to the floor with a slight wheezing sound.
“Come on.” I take May’s hand and lead her around behind the counter.
The kid stares up at me, his mouth tightly shut as I push through the door into a storage room. A screen glows toward the back, past boxes of paper towels and motor oil. The room has a pungent odor even though the window at the back is cracked for ventilation.
“You don’t think he’ll call the police?” May asks, her tone nervous.
“Not a chance.” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder to an old tomato jar stuffed with buds. Beside it, there’s a digital scale. “It’s legal plenty of places, but not here. He’s got a little side business going that he doesn’t want the cops anywhere near.”