Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
I hated the stupid contacts. No matter how well I lubricated my eyes, they always felt a little scratchy. I normally wouldn’t have bothered, given how much effort I’d put into everything else appearance-wise. But the weird feeling I couldn’t shake had me sticking them in and convincing myself the brown color would add to the whole makeover I was going for.
Even the clothes I was wearing were different.
Gone was my usual attire—short skirts, tees or tanks, and my combat boots. In their place was a club dress that clung to every square inch of me, and boot-style heels that were open in the toe with little cutouts up the sides, so they didn’t look completely out of place, but gave me room to sew little pockets in for the gouger and knife. Smaller ones than I would normally pack. But they would do the job in a pinch.
The whole look gave me either a club girl on spring break or a high-price call-girl look.
Either would work for my cover.
I pressed my hand to my stomach, trying to convince myself that the wobbling there was from not eating enough, not from nerves.
I hadn’t been able to stomach much since I woke up, forcing down a cheese stick and a couple of pretzel sticks just to keep my stomach from grumbling on the job. I told myself that I would eat after. Maybe even gorge myself on whatever takeout place was open when I was done.
What I was really craving was literally anything that Eddie’s creative mind and skilled hands could cook up. But that wasn’t an option. Not tonight.
But tomorrow.
Tomorrow, when this was all done, and I could breathe a sigh of relief, I was going to go back to the clubhouse and eat everything he made, then fuck Cato’s brains out, and be happy this was all done.
“Exactly,” I told Josie. “We’ve thought of everything. I think there’s just a lot on the line with this one, and it’s making it feel different than the other jobs.”
That was likely a lie.
But it seemed to placate Josie.
“Maybe,” she agreed. Though Josie really didn’t care about the money. She was on salary. A nice salary, mind you. With a twice-yearly bonus—one around the holidays, and another in the spring in case she wanted to take a vacation and go somewhere. She never did, of course. I imagined that money went to new bookshelves and books to fill them. But, hey, whatever made her happy. I guess they were a vacation of sorts, too.
She did know how important the money was to me, though, so I could see her thinking that was why I was off, and therefore why she felt off.
“Okay. Burner me,” I demanded, holding a hand out toward her.
I never took my real phone with me on jobs. It was too risky. Too much could be gleaned from texts. Or traced back to me via the maps apps and stuff. Josie kept an entire drawer of burners just because of this. These were basic. Just a phone with no information on it that I could use in case of an extreme emergency.
Josie held out a discreet little flip phone—yes, they still make them!—and I checked to make sure all the sounds were off before shoving it into my bra. Luckily, I had a little space in the cups, unlike Josie. It would stay nestled there, irritating and awkward, until I was safely in my car and had driven around for a while to make sure I didn’t have a tail.
Then and only then, I would take it out.
The ritual was the same after.
Take off as much of the disguise as I could in the car, then get back to the office to finish the job. There, I would also call Josie, let her know it was done. And, finally, call the client to let them know it was over, then go home and relax.
It’s just a couple hours, I reminded myself as I yanked down the skirt that kept riding up thanks to the clingy material of the dress, took a deep breath, and nodded at Josie.
“I’m out,” I told her. “Go home. I will call you as soon as I am done.”
“Okay,” she agreed, leaving Binx this time, likely because she was too anxious to think of him. Not that it mattered; he would be fine. Then, stopping mid-stride, she rushed back toward me, throwing her arms around me, and squeezing tight.
We weren’t typically hugging type friends. Sure, if we were buzzed enough, maybe we would hang all over each other. Mostly for support, though.
“I love you,” she told me.
I wasn’t used to those words. My mom, the crazy woman she was, never said them. I avoided relationships of all sorts, so I never said them then.
But there was no denying them when they came out of my mouth then.