Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
“No.” My response obviously isn’t the one they’re looking for. “You asked about my schedule, which I don’t have memorized. You then asked me about some man I don’t remember seeing off the top of my head, which considering how many people I fucking see in a day, isn’t that surprising. And then you tell me he contacted me for a job that I can’t confirm or deny I took without my work shit in front of me.” The shrug that escapes seems to shock and irk the pair. “Not real sure what the fuck this is about boys, but I’d love for you to get to the fucking point.”
“He’s missing,” Northwood clumsily confesses. “And he may be connected to another person of interest for a more pressing case, which is why any information from anyone who has seen him recently is crucial.”
“Critical,” Davis echoes.
My money says that the other “more pressing case” is about Rabbit.
Or going to be about her, and I’m not about to let that shit fly.
“Sorry detectives,” I calmly proclaim. “Without documentation to assist in my answerin’ I can’t be of much help. And I don’t keep that shit on me. Especially not when I’m out handlin’ house shit.” Their eyes briefly settle on Kipp like he’s their next target pushing me to grunt, “Look, if you wanna get an order for my records, do so. I’ll pull ‘em and we can do this little song and dance again, but until then? I’ve got a man to feed and a woman to fuck.” The condescending head tip is followed by me moving towards my parked nonwork truck. “Detectives.”
“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Nolan,” Davis calls out only to receive a two-finger wave over my shoulder.
Even if they are, so what?
They’ve got nothing.
I know where I was.
I know what I did.
And I know that they’ll never find him.
Just like that stalker son of a bitch will never get his hands on our woman again.
Chapter 15
Kipp
I – honest to the car gods – don’t know what’s more distracting.
Watching her tongue ring anxiously whip back and forth while she dangerously whisks around the mushed potatoes in what was once my mother’s favorite cooking bowl or looking out the glass patio door to watch him slowly press his lips to that fucking beer bottle while he grills our steaks.
ForFerrarisake, I want them both on my cock.
Right.
Now.
Her using that weapon of mass destruction around the tip, licking up the precum I know is soaking my boxers, and him letting his scruff scrape my thighs as he presses his mouth to my sack, lapping up any of her spit that manages to escape.
I’d probably cross the finish line a little too fast, but fuck me, would it be worth it.
Frustrated groans not so quietly seeping free are swiftly followed by me adjusting my thickening dick that doesn’t understand why it’s really not the time for that shit.
Not when this much unknown shit is just hanging in the air like a cheap air freshener.
That shit drives me fucking insane.
You can spend all that money to get your girl waxed and detailed and waxed again but your ass can’t spring for something a little better than that palm tree shaped piece of shit you grabbed when you stopped to buy yourself smokes?
Come on.
Have some self-respect.
Do better.
I mean if you’re not willing to spring for one of the fancy auto rotators at least get a fucking vent clip.
Finally finished with her hard stirring, Bunny turns around to face me and blows the loose strands of hair out of her sparkling brown eyes. “Done.”
It’s impossible not to smirk at her defeated demeanor. “Did you win?”
“You won’t if you don’t get your ass up and set the table.”
“Don’t be pissy at me.” Light chuckles escape at the same time I rise to my feet to cross into the kitchen space, beer still in hand. “You’re the one who insisted on making whipped potatoes from scratch.”
“You said they were your favorite!”
“They are,” I promptly reassure after putting my bottle down on our table. “But they’re a bitch and half to make which is why I learned to love the art of the instant potato.”
“Is that really an art?” She sassily counters, tossing me her own teasing smile. “Or is that an art the same way fingerpainting is?”
“That is art.”
“Just because Mutt puts your pictures on the fridge doesn’t make you Picasso.”
This time her snark receives her a playful slap on the ass that not only has her squeaking in surprise but giggling.
Man, do I love having a woman who enjoys a good spank.
And can give one too.
Anytime she sees me bent over underneath a hood, she makes sure to deliver one herself.
The lesson I’ve learned?
Announce when I’ve got spillable shit in my possession.
“I just…” her stare attaches itself to my table setting movements, “wanted to do something special for you today because you did something special for me.”