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)
“You don’t get out, I don’t tow.”
Her eyebrows immediately shift upward in question.
“I don’t tow…then your sweet tits are left here to take your chances at being a hitchhiker or a Happy Meal for the vultures.” Seeing her gaze narrow to tight slits convinces me to add. “And since you already paid me for the tow, you’d be double fucked.” There’s no resisting the wolfish grin that grows in place. “Is that shit you’re into?”
Suddenly, the woman forcefully opens the door, nailing me in the shin. Grumbles of pain are poorly swallowed prior to her announcing, “Next time I hit you in the nuts.”
Stepping back allows her the space to snatch up her bag, step out of her vehicle, and stomp over to my flatbed with my stare glued to every sway of her ass that’s being showcased in her red, skintight cheer shorts.
I need to be hit in the dick.
And the head.
Repeatedly.
Because towing this much trouble straight into the heart of our town versus out has to be the stupidest shit I’ve ever done in my entire fucking life.
Chapter 3
Kipp
It may be five o’clock somewhere, but it ain’t here.
At least not for another five minutes.
Five more minutes and I can shut the garage.
Lock up the shop.
Go upstairs and shove cold pizza in my face while flipping through this car mag for the fourth time because I don’t have any side jobs booked for the night.
Fuck, I wish I did.
I love working on foreign beauties when the lights go out.
I love when it’s just me, a performance kit, and classical music on repeat.
Other gearheads judge.
I mean…who the fuck likes classical shit?
Who the fuck chooses to listen to Bizet and Beethoven and Bach over Def Leopard or Cannibal Corpse?
Who under the age of fifty who has had his dick touched by more than just himself purposely picks Puccini over Pink Floyd?
And I have had mine touched.
And sucked.
And fucked.
It’s just…been awhile.
Which is my fault.
I typically prefer the car in my presence more than the woman getting out of the passenger side.
Just like I prefer the money more than the pussy that’s sometimes offered instead.
Nolan’s content either way.
As long as I am.
It’s when I’m not that there’s a problem.
People see me and think screwing me over will be an easy gig.
People see him, and they know it’s not.
I may be “the brains”, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be the brawns.
Once upon a time, Miles Nolan wasn’t always around like he is now.
I had to defend myself from my old man.
He was great with a wrench.
In both good and not good ways.
Not Nolan, though.
He’d never do that type of shit to me.
For me?
Yeah.
He has.
Beating some asshole within a couple inches of his life with a tire iron because he tried to scam me out of four grand may have just been another Tuesday for that hard ass, but turning that rage on me?
No day that ends in y.
He’d rather die first.
I know that shit because he’s said it.
Truth?
So, would I.
Without a doubt, living and working with Nolan is the second-best thing to ever happen to me with my old man accidentally drinking windshield wiper fluid seven years ago being the first.
The sound of his old tow truck approaching diverts my attention away from the magazine I’ve been mindlessly turning the pages of while humming along to Franz Schubert and up to where he’s partially pulling into the empty garage with a vehicle, surprisingly, in tow.
Huh.
Maybe I’ll have something to do tonight after all.
His skewed parking and immediate exiting reveal to me two more unexpected things.
The first?
He’s pissed.
We’re talking half a bottle of whiskey, four beers, two cigars, fuck dinner I’m just gonna drink it tonight level of pissed.
I ain’t seen him this mad since the day he caught his stripper ex-girlfriend banging that priest on a Sunday between church services. She was definitely on her knees, but the good lord damn sure couldn’t make out what she says saying if you know what I mean.
The second?
A long-legged, brown skinned beauty who happens to also be wearing a similar scowl along with teeny tiny red workout shorts I get the feeling she’s never actually worked out in.
Not that she’s out of shape.
No.
Between the tits falling out of her tank top and her round ass asking to be looked at in those bottoms, I can connect the curves on her like a fucking Maserati I wanna stick my dick in.
Um.
Her.
I wanna stick my dick in her, not the car.
Just to be clear.
I’m not one of those.
I’ve never been, nor will I ever be one of those.
I simply meant the shorts look brand new versus worn in.
Sliding the paper object to the side, I warmly ask, “New customer?”
“Not until tomorrow,” Nolan shoots back as he walks towards me.
“And why the fuck not?” sasses the female who parks herself on the opposite side of the counter from me.