Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Right to my left inside the door was a six-foot-tall piece of plywood with various sales fliers pinned up to it, the oldest of which dated back six months. Whoever ran the place really wasn't interested in a working, functional business model that could make him more money.
"I'm just saying," a man's voice said from somewhere in front of that sheet of plywood where, I imagined, the front counter was situated. "Women who smile look so much prettier. Give me a smile, baby."
I rolled my eyes for the poor woman dealing with some asshole drunk whose words slurred so much that they tripped over each other.
"I don't smile on command; I'm not a fucking dog."
No fucking way.
Of all the, well, gin joints, right?
I walk into hers.
That seemed like some damn kismet shit right there.
I'd been in Navesink Bank for almost two years. I had been in and out of all the other local liquor stores. Then just two days after laying eyes on this woman for the first time, I had to come to this one for some kegs?
Talk about a major fucking coincidence.
"No?" the guy pressed on as I took a step forward to look past the bulletin wall to see a man who was fifty-five if he was a day with oily skin, balding hair, and a body so thin it looked like all he was was bones stretched over skin. "'Cause you're acting like a real bitch, Len."
"It's not an act," she responded, voice bored, completely unaffected.
"You know what I think?"
"Can't be too deep," she drawled, looking down at some magazine in her hand. From the angle, I couldn't make out the title, but damn if I wasn't sure I saw a gun advertised.
Seriously, what was this woman up to?
She looked good too; that didn't escape my notice.
Her outside of the gym style suited her. Tight black skinny jeans, a deep wine-colored tee that scooped a little low in front under a black fake leather motorcycle jacket, and a pair of deep red Doc Martens on her feet. No jewelry; she didn't strike me as the kind of woman to wear much - if any. Her makeup was minimal, maybe just some mascara and liner. Her eyes seemed a bit bolder than they had earlier.
Badass.
That was how she was. It only suited that her fashion sense matched.
"You need some dick in your life," the jackass concluded.
"And you need more brain in your head and less liquor in your liver. And, well, let's face it, probably some more dick in your pants too."
My lips curved up, finding myself liking that she didn't give a shit about watching her mouth. Not even at work.
"Oh, yeah? How about I show..." the man started, reaching down toward his fly, making me straighten, thinking I was going to need to step in before things went any further.
But then there was a soft click, the sound of which anyone familiar with one would know it for what it was.
A switchblade flicking open.
"Try it, and I will cut it the fuck off, Gary," she told him, voice still somehow bored-sounding, though there was now an edge to it. The man paused, but his hands were still holding his fly. "You know I'm not fucking with you," she added, gaze unblinking.
"Yeah yeah yeah," the man grumbled, zipping back up. "Would rather not be like Mitch," he added. "But you are a cunt, Len. In case someone hasn't told you yet today."
He walked away with that as Lenny closed her blade. "You're only the third today. I must be slacking."
"What did you do to Mitch?" I asked, watching as her body jolted, her head swiveling around, clearly having been too distracted by her interaction with Gary - and her Guns and Ammo magazine - to notice I had come in.
"Are you stalking me?" she asked, brows drawn low like that wouldn't make any sense.
"I need kegs," I informed her, moving around the front of the counter, seeing the display case she was standing against full of cigars. The wall behind her had other cases dispensing packs of cigarettes.
There was the slight urge to buy a pack, as there often was when faced with them. Even six years after giving the fucking things up, the urge was still there.
"Bottle Masters needed more notice. Sent me in this direction. What'd you do to Mitch?" I asked again, smirking. "And what did he do to deserve it?"
"He grabbed my tit," she explained easily. "And I broke his hand."
"Fair enough," I agreed.
"Are you wearing a cut?" she asked almost as I was speaking, her voice with a slight edge to it that I couldn't place. Was it simply surprise? Or did I hear a bit of eagerness as well? Or was that just my imagination?
"Yeah," I agreed, watching her eyes work. She might have had guards strong enough to keep the Roman army out, but for some reason, I could see a lot in her eyes.