Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
It was possible he’d gone out somewhere.
. . . but it’s also possible he’s bit the dust.
Stifling a grunt, I rapped on his door again. “Charlie, it’s Riggs. Answer.”
Nothing. It wasn’t like Charlie, who usually fell all over himself when I visited like I was the pope or something. I punched the doorbell, growing both uneasy and pissy with myself for giving two shits about this whole thing.
“Open up, Charles, or I’m kicking this door down. Gotta keep the tradition alive.”
It seemed like half my time in this building was spent tearing doors down and then paying to put them back up. Was there an Olympic sport for that kind of thing?
When there was still no answer, I let go of the paper bags, took a step back, angled my shoulder, and smashed against it. The flimsy door flew open. I stepped over the brown bags I’d left on the floor earlier and waltzed inside. It had only been twelve hours since I’d last checked on him, and the place reeked.
Oh, fuck, if he died, I was going to be stuck here forever, answering police questions.
I looked around, relieved to see that the sulfur smell was coming from boiled eggs he’d left on the counter and not his decomposing body.
“Charlie?” I asked, moving around the apartment. It was bigger than Duffy’s but still small enough to cover in less than two minutes. “You sick fuck, who boils eggs and keeps them on the counter?”
I walked into his bedroom. Empty. I dashed to the bathroom and opened the door. Something hard and heavy pressed against it from the other side, making it difficult to open all the way.
Shit.
Carefully, I squeezed through the gap in the door before stepping over a . . . what the hell was it? A leg. I glanced down. Charlie was lying on the floor, his eyes closed, his arms spread like he was making a snow angel. He looked young and old at the same time.
If he’d kicked the bucket, Duffy was going to be really sad. And to be honest, I would be too.
I crouched down and ran my fingers under his nose. His hot breath fanned over them, faint, but there. I let out a sigh of relief.
I fished out my cell phone and shook my head. “You’re lucky I’m calling an ambulance and not the police. I would’ve killed you twice over if you’d messed up my day like that.”
The next hour moved fast. Charlie was taken to the hospital in an ambulance. He was still unconscious, and the paramedics told me they weren’t authorized to give me any information about his health, since I wasn’t next of kin, but that I could visit him once he was in the books. They also said I “did the right thing.” Like there was anything else to do when you find your neighbor unconscious on the floor.
I shot Duffy a message informing her about what happened, then proceeded to the Brewtherhood. The good thing about this bar was that it opened at noon, which made getting trashed not only easy but legitimized.
I was well into my third drink when my phone buzzed with an incoming call. I fished it out of my pocket and frowned. Gretchen’s name flashed on the screen. I couldn’t ignore her for eternity, because maturity or something. Plus, I had a thing or two to say to her.
“Hey, Riggs!” She sounded like a bundle of sunshine, like we hadn’t parted ways with me being pushed to marry her assistant, who she then humiliated on their last day at the office. “How’ve you been, hon?”
“Did you have a personality implant last time you went for a lipo?” I leaned against the bar, squinting. “You sound—”
“Happy?” she chirped.
“Nice,” I corrected.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” It appeared like she was driving. Or, more likely, being driven.
“No.” I picked up my beer and brought it to my lips. “I enjoyed your wrath in bed and never stayed long enough for the conversation.”
She let out a shrill laugh. “I swear, the things that come out of your mouth.”
“The things that get into yours,” I retorted.
That made her laughter die. “Where are you?”
“My usual spot.” She knew about the Brewtherhood because, before she moved to DC, every time I was in New York, we had an arrangement. We’d meet here and then go to her apartment.
“Great. I’m on my way.” She hung up.
She was in New York? What happened to DC? Maybe POTUS had realized she had a radioactive personality and an attitude to match.
Ten minutes later, Gretchen was sitting next to me in the Brewtherhood, looking like the bombshell I’d enjoyed so much over the years. Interestingly enough, she did nothing for me now.
“I thought you were in DC,” I said, wondering if my dick was broken. Gretchen never failed to make me hard. There was something about her unapologetic ruthlessness and six HIIT workouts a week that spoke directly to my cock, which was an avid listener.