Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I take the marker and sign the guy’s balding head. I wait patiently as most of the guys in the cell produce random objects and body parts for me to sign. The bearded guy occasionally alliterates from his corner of the room, adding to the sense of weirdness.
“How long do they usually keep us here?” I ask. Something tells me most of these guys are regulars and probably know the ins and outs of drunk tank bookings.
“At least through the night,” one guy says. His long hair looks like he washed it with duck fat and olive oil. He’s also missing a handful of teeth. “They like to chuck us in, leave us to simmer down, and then they come back in the morning. If you really fucked up, you may be in here a day or two while they set up a court date or move you to the real show.”
“Listen, Jake,” the balding one with my signature on his head says. “You want my advice? Don’t tell them shit. They gonna try to trick you, okay? They’ll say they’re your friends. They’ll say they got everything under the sun on you. But they ain’t got shit. Trust me on that, brother. You just clam the fuck up, sit through it, and rock on.”
I nod, eyes narrowed. “Thanks.”
I hear the distinct click of high heels on concrete. I go to the edge of the bars and see a woman in a navy pencil skirt and a perfectly arranged, platinum-blonde ponytail coming into view.
Vanessa.
Normally, I’d be relieved to see my agent coming to the rescue. But the combination of the look on her face and the fact that I have no idea what I did makes me less than thrilled this time.
I wait, watching her approach.
She folds her arms just outside the jail cell, glaring at me and shaking her head.
A couple of guys whistle from behind me, but I turn and give them a look that shuts them up.
“Seriously, Jake?” Vanessa says after a few moments. “And where is your shirt?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. I don’t remember what I did to get myself in here.”
She sighs and pulls a folder out from under one armpit, opening it up. “Why don’t we jump right into the police report?”
I wince. “There’s a police report?”
“There is. And it appears to be written by a female officer with no shame.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just wait,” she says, smiling tightly. Vanessa is in her mid-thirties, no-nonsense, and does a hell of a job as my agent. She has been by my side through the ups and downs of my career, but meeting her from behind bars and without a shirt might be a new low for me. If the discomfort on her face is any indication, it’s a new low for her, too.
She clears her throat. “The suspect was observed causing a disruption at ‘Pete’s Sloshy Swill’s’ on Tuesday at 11:37 P.M. Witnesses reported Jake Summers was engaging in an impromptu “ice hockey game” with bar furniture. One witness claimed the suspect’s ‘chiseled abs glistened in the dim bar light’ as he participated in the solo match.”
I sputter with a surprised laugh. “Does it actually say that?” I ask.
A few of the guys whoop in approval. They’re gathering around like it’s fucking story time. One of them claps my shoulder. “They do glisten, bro. No homo, of course. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, either. Just saying I’m not saying–”
“Shut up, Rosenbaum,” another voice says from behind me.
“Shutting up,” Rosenbaum says.
Vanessa eyes me. Disapproval is all over her expression, but there may also be a touch of amusement. “It gets better. Should I keep going, or is this ringing a bell yet?”
“Vaguely,” I say slowly. “But keep going. I need to hear if I won or not.”
Her lips purse, but she puts her finger on the page and continues. “From the witness section,” she says. “Mr. Summers commandeered a mop from the janitor’s closet and used it as his stick. Witnesses say he took great pains to explain the game's rules to the onlookers, like how the stools were his opponents and how he ‘didn’t need teammates since everybody is quitting, anyway.’ Despite stumbling and slurring his words, Summers deftly maneuvered around the stools and used the janitor’s mop to imagine he scored several times, proclaiming, ‘Summers scores again, fuck yeah!’ each time. Mr. Summers was described as six foot four, hot enough to melt your socks, and possessing a jawline that would make a statue of Adonis cry with jealousy.” Vanessa’s delivery is so dry it almost makes me laugh out loud.
“So the game went well?” I say.
She gives me another look, then continues. “Mr. Summers eventually attempted his ‘trademark power shot,’ resulting in the mop head detaching from the stick and flying across the bar. It narrowly missed a pregnant patron, hit a mounted TV, and then landed in a bowl of peanuts, much to the dismay of snack-seeking patrons. The responding officer has collected the peanuts and presented them to evidence, along with the mug Mr. Summers is said to have put his full lips on while becoming impaired.”