Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
“I’m guessing I am gonna see you tomorrow?”
I don’t take even a second to consider my reply. “Your guess would be correct.”
The trio’s lips drop into a pout when he devotes his attention back to me enough for them to lose the heat of his gaze. “Where are you staying?” My brow barely lifts when he attempts to eradicate my confusion. “You’re not a local. If you were, I would have sniffed you out years ago.” He takes a moment to relish my furled lips and then adds, “And you’re not a hotel guest, or you would have taken advantage of the canapes and free booze offered after four p.m. every afternoon, so where are you gonna rest your head for the night?”
Bartenders are like hairdressers—they know everything. Trying to deceive them is just foolish, so I be honest. “I was planning to drive home. Now I’ll probably just find a place to stay on the outskirts of town.”
By place, I mean a truck stop or a gas station, where I will sleep in my car with the tire wrench hidden under the hoodie I’m going to treat as a blanket.
The bartender, still nameless, sees through my lie in under a second. “Truck stops ain’t no place for a lady.” I’m already stammering for air from how easily he read me, so you can picture my gasping state when he says, “You can crash at mine.”
Not paying attention to my headshake, he snags a set of keys from beneath the bar and then tosses them at me.
I either catch them or let them fall to the floor.
I catch them. It doesn’t mean what the trio at the end of the bar thinks.
I’m not going home with him.
“I’m not… I can’t.” That whiny brat with a voice oddly similar to mine had better quit stuttering before I smack her. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine.”
“You either stay at my place, or I’ll spend the night circling the truck stops, seeking you in the…”—he twists his lips as he contemplates—“rusted white Lada Niva you’re getting around in that is most likely older than you.” I snap my mouth shut. “Your stingy ass is as uneager as the rest of us to pay the valet parking rate here, so you parked behind me in an alleyway a couple of blocks up.”
I don’t feel threatened by him. He doesn’t give off dark and dangerous vibes like Andrik, though it won’t stop me from saying, “You said you arrived for your shift eight hours ago.” He nods, unknowingly inching toward my trap. “So how did you see me park behind you a little over four hours ago?”
I assume he’s seconds from being snared by my trap. I’m poorly mistaken. “Do you really think I’d park my custom Irbis in an alleyway without making sure she was wired up to the hilt with surveillance?”
I have no clue what an Irbis is, but it is clearly important to him. He switches the football on the TV to a live feed of the alleyway two blocks up from the hotel.
“Hey!” a fellow bartender shouts in frustration. “I was watching that.”
“Now you’re watching my bike,” Bartender One replies, his tone firm enough for his colleague to back down on his campaign in an instant.
Bartender One’s motorcycle replicates a Harley Davidson. It is all black with chrome features. It’s a sexy bike—even more so when featured next to my bomb, which is one coastal visit from being completely rusted out.
After admiring his favorite mode of transport for a few more seconds, he tells the complaining bartender to snap a picture of the tags on his bike.
When he does as asked, Bartender One nudges his head to me before saying with a smile, “Now her.”
“I don’t conse—”
Too late.
Bartender Two takes my picture without consent.
“Are they clear?” Bartender Two jerks up his chin before spinning his phone screen around to get Bartender One’s approval. “That’s as clear as a glass of water not removed from the Hudson.” He gets off track as quickly as I do when I find something interesting. “What phone is that? It takes a damn good picture. I can even see the tiny little freckles adorning her adorable nose.”
When I realize what he is doing—killing my suspicion with compliments—I pull the damp dish towel off his shoulder and throw it in his face.
“Delete that,” I demand, pointing to Bartender Two, “before I show you what happens when I don’t consent to having my photo taken.”
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down before he attempts to delete the image.
I say attempt because Bartender One snatches his phone out of his grasp before he can. “If you delete the evidence of our blistering yet somewhat one-sided exchange, how will he rat me out to the po-po if your name shows up on a missing person’s report tomorrow?”