Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
It’d worked. The foggy picture of Paco’s thin lips wrapped around Z’s soft cock floated through his mind. He’d had to accept a full glass of Castor’s whiskey before he even felt a twitch of interest, but the kid had worked hard. Eventually Z’s resistance had faded and he’d come down the back of the poor kid’s throat to the sound of Castor’s victorious laugh.
“Do you want Fitch to pick you up for dinner tonight? We’re going to need to figure out what to do while you’re healing.”
“No.”
Ansel’s Sunday dinners had started as soon as they’d left the Prism Center as a way to maintain the strong bond they’d developed. Ever since he’d moved to New Jersey to live with Fitch, they’d grown to include more than just their tight-knit group of friends. Now even Fitch’s sister and her girlfriend came to them. Z really wasn’t in the mood to face the entire crazy group.
His emotions were too close to the surface. His usual tenaciousness had disappeared. He couldn’t let them see how much he was struggling.
“How will you get here then?” Like it wasn’t even a question that he’d be there. Like his presence was inevitable. Like he didn’t have a choice.
Control. He needed to get some of it back.
“I’m not coming.”
Ansel was deathly quiet for about a second. “Why the hell not?”
“Because I feel like shit. All I want to do is sleep.”
“Oh please, take a fucking nap. You’ve got the whole day to rest.”
“I’m not coming, Ansel. Deal with it.” He could feel his friend stewing through the connection and prayed that he’d give up. Z didn’t want to fight, but he would.
“Christ, you are the whiniest bitch when you’re not one-hundred. I swear.”
“I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, but you’d probably take it as a challenge.”
“Fine. Be a spoiled little princess with a boo-boo. For today. Mope around and feel sorry for yourself if it gets you off. But tomorrow, get the fuck over it.” Even though the words were direct, harsh even, Ansel’s tone of voice was full of sympathy and understanding. So much so that it struck Z hard and he had to swallow a few times before the urge to apologize passed.
They hung up without saying good-bye and when the phone in his hand rang again, Z thought it might be Ansel again with more threats.
He answered with another blunt, “What?”
“Becca called in sick, thought you might want to take her shift,” Sal said.
“Can’t.” It was hard getting that one word out when his throat was closing, but he knew he needed to explain. He couldn’t just not show up to work if he still wanted to have a job when he was back on his feet. “Twisted my ankle last night, can’t walk for shit without crutches. Doc says I gotta stay off it for a while.”
“Well, that’s just great.” Thank God, there wasn’t an ounce of pity in his voice.
“Sorry, I can still come in if you want. Maybe I can wash the pots.”
“Nah, you’d just be a pain in my ass. Heal fast, kid. I’ll handle things around here while you’re gone, but I expect to see you ready to work in no time, ya hear me?”
Z swallowed the giant ball of relief and nodded even though no one was there to see him. “Yeah, boss. I hear ya.”
Z tossed his phone onto the coffee table before banging his head against the back of the couch. Two to three weeks without money coming in, back rent to pay, not to mention phone bills, electricity, fucking food.
He closed his eyes and tried not to wallow in self-pity.
He had to remember, he was a fucking fighter. This injury wasn’t going to keep him down forever. He just needed to work through this shit and get back on his feet.
No problem.
But no matter how much he tried to psych himself up, the gloom wouldn’t leave. It hung over him like a fucking cartoon black rain cloud, leaving him cold and lonely.
Chapter Seventeen
“I heard you and Barnes were in West Village the other day asking questions at some nightclub.” Captain Bell crossed his arms as he looked down his nose at Connelly.
“Who told you that?”
“So it’s true?”
Connelly rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe.”
“Tell me it has something to do with the shooting you still haven’t closed or one of the other dozen cases the DA is hounding me about.”
Instead of answering, he straightened the files on his desk.
“Damn it, Reid.”
“Personal time only, Cap. We’ll hand it over to Midtown North as soon as we have solid evidence.”
Captain Bell sighed. “I don’t have the patience for this shit. What is it?”
“Illegal narcotics being sold at the club.”
“Way outside of your purview.”
“I know.”
“Evidence?”
“Nothing solid yet, working a lead. The only thing we know is a waiter named Keller is involved.”