Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“I need to speak with… Bonnie.” You have no fucking clue how close I came to blurting out Nicole’s name. “I won’t take a minute.”
He twists me away from the dressing room and shoves me back toward the stage area. “There’s no time. I need you out there with the masses, protecting Nicole like you’re paid to do.”
“It’s fine—”
“It’s not fucking fine, Laken!” he shouts, his roar rattling through his hands on my back. “You have no fucking clue what half those people out there are willing to do for a hundred dollars. One guy offered to kidnap Nicole for a little extra on top of the chair-filling fee I paid him to be here. So go back to the stage and stand where I fucking put you so none of those greasy homeless fuckers get close enough to sniff my girl's shampoo.”
I don’t know what part to work through first. My shock he paid the audience to be here, or my worry that he let in the person who offered to kidnap Nicole for such a measly amount.
I settle on the latter.
“Is he here?” When his focus remains elsewhere, I ask again, louder this time. “Is he here?” I shake him to force his eyes on me. “The fucker who offered to kidnap Nicole. Is he here? Did he show up?”
“Of course he did. He wouldn’t get paid if he didn’t show up.” He peers past me, up at the bleachers a tour crew constructed overnight. “He’s in the back row, wearing a stained Lakers cap. Why?” I’m halfway to the bearded man he pointed out when he shouts, “I didn’t accept his terms.”
“It doesn’t matter. Do you really think a sane man offers to do something like that for a hundred dollars?”
I realize I’m asking the wrong person when Knox shrugs before signaling for one of the road crew to back me up. “Make sure he only roughs him up a little. We don’t want another murder conviction slotted under his name before midday.”
The man with tattoos skating up his arm startles.
I can’t say I blame him.
Knox just made out I’m a notorious killer.
He could be right with how thick my blood is clogged with anger.
“Laken Howell?”
My brows pull together when I spin away from the police van housing a degenerate offering illegal activities for any denomination, when I spot a man in his mid-thirties wearing a dark suit and polished black dress shoes.
He looks like my parole officer, just not as sleazy.
“Can I help you?”
Confident I’m not about to run, he removes his hand from his gun and moseys closer to me. “I’m here on behalf of the Board of Parole. It’s about your ankle tracker.” He flashes his credentials too quickly for me to see. “You were meant to be fitted with one before leaving Florida.”
“My PO didn’t mention anything about it.” That isn’t technically a lie. Knox mentioned it after my first meetup. Officer Barker only drug tested me.
The dark-haired officer nudges his head to the alleyway, requesting we take our talk somewhere private. I agree with his suggestion since I get eyeballed as often as the backup dancers eyeball Nicole.
Once I’ve joined him near an industrial bin, the unnamed officer states, “Officer Barker was unaware of your intention to travel so soon after release.”
“He wasn’t the only one.” I take a moment to breathe out my frustration before asking, “Will this affect my probation?”
“It could...”—his pause isn’t extensive enough for me to do anything but wait—“if you don’t agree to be fitted with a GPS tracker now.”
“Now?”
He grins at the shock in my tone before heading for a dark sedan parked a couple of spots up.
After throwing open the back passenger door, he gestures for me to enter his vehicle as if I’m a criminal.
I guess to him, I am.
I startle when my slip into the car has me butting shoulders with a beautiful brunette. She is ten times hotter and a couple of years younger than the man standing guard outside.
She must be accustomed to being ogled, as she gets straight down to business despite my creepy gawk. “Have you worn a tracker before?”
Spikes of dark hair flop side to side when I shake my head.
“These guys are foolproof.” She gestures for me to place my foot onto the middle console between the driver and passenger seat and lift the cuff of my pants as she pulls a state-of-the-art tracker from a bulky briefcase. “You can do anything in them. Shower. Eat—”
“Fuck,” the man outside tacks on, his tone playful. His spirited nature makes sense when the brunette’s cheeks turn the color of beets as he adds, “You’ll learn that one day. I’m still in with a shot of arresting him. I just need Regan to stop hiding his assets so well.”
I realize their relationship is more friendship based than romantic when she rolls her eyes at his insinuation her other half is dirty.