Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
And slept like a baby.
Chapter Eight
Piece of Cake
Mo
The next night, standing backstage, eyes scanning the crowd during Lottie’s last set, Mo tried to control his thoughts that were on the fact none of the guys they’d tagged last night was their guy.
And his thoughts were on that because they were also on the most recent letter they got.
The ugliest.
The most troubling.
The one that was delivered to Smithie Monday and included the news that the guy knew all about Mo, and that Mo was going to be cleansed himself, this being executed, as in made dead for “consorting with the soiled.”
The letter that also shared the members of Hawk’s crew who were supposed to be doing drive-bys and randomly keeping an eye on Lottie’s house while he was inside keeping an eye on Lottie, as well as Mo when he was out with Lottie, had missed this guy somewhere along the line.
The letter that had Mo so tweaked, he was close to having to admit that to Hawk, this being right before he shared he was taking Lottie to Bali.
All these thoughts clashed with all his thoughts about Lottie, and all his responses—mentally, emotionally and physically—that were making it nearly impossible to do his job.
The way she stepped in with Carla being the most recent. Not only getting her to go to the emergency room, getting her mom to look after the woman’s children, and also her chat with all the girls that night, after learning Carla was out for at least five days, probably more like ten.
They were taking a collection.
Carla was on paid leave.
But she wouldn’t feel the loss of her tips.
And finally, Lottie saying to Dominique, who’d brought in Lottie’s first take of tips from her first set, “Everything I get tonight goes into the envelope for Carla.”
No, Carla wouldn’t feel the loss of her tips.
It was clear Lottie ruled this roost, not as the headliner, but as the benevolent queen who looked after her subjects.
It wasn’t just her nephews, her sister, her mother, her “And tell Tex I love him.”
It was just her.
With everyone.
And when he had her, he’d have all that in more ways than she was giving it now, and make no mistake, she was giving it now.
But she was holding it back.
And it was tearing her up.
She was nearly bursting at the seams to give all she had to Mo.
And he wanted it.
Bad.
He was gonna have to tell Hawk.
Before he got her the fuck out of there.
This guy going uncaptured, they might never be able to come back.
Mo was down with that.
Unfortunately, his mother and sisters wouldn’t be. Not to mention his nieces and nephews.
They had to get this guy.
And Mo had to stay sharp.
He had to…
His body went solid when he saw him.
Every Guy.
Very carefully Every Guy.
Slightly faded red polo shirt. But crisp jeans, like they were new.
Not a match.
You didn’t wear new jeans with an old shirt. Most men forced to go to the store, they stocked up. If he had an occasion he wore new jeans, he’d put on a new shirt.
And it was slightly faded, not stained, misshapen, fucked up.
Casual. Like he grabbed whatever and threw it on when he did not. He made that selection carefully.
Trying to fit in.
Trying to be Every Guy.
And he probably usually wore trousers. Or chinos. A suit. Way too uptight to wear jeans. Way too obsessive to let go even for that.
Mo knew this because of his neat haircut.
Clipped perfect. Not overly styled. His hair laid that way because it was cut to lay that way. And Mo’d lay money down the man went to the barber no less than once every three weeks.
Clean, close shave. Baby skin. Perfectly trimmed sideburns.
Hand on the table next to a bottle of beer that was untouched. Mo could see the thin line of foam at the top in the neck. The guy didn’t drink, not alcohol.
Fingers rat-a-tat-tatting a nervous strum on the table.
Careful placement of his position, not in the front row, not in a booth at the back, so as not to appear too eager, not pretending to be too aloof, or worse, hiding. Second row of tables, side stage, where he could see Lottie.
But his eyes were on Mo.
When he saw Mo had eyes on him, casually, too casually, he tipped his chin to acknowledge the eye contact, then turned his attention to Lottie.
Bland face, carefully bland. No reaction to the best one-woman show anyone in that room had ever seen. No visible reaction to a beautiful woman with a fantastic figure in a sequined bikini and high heels twirling upside down on a pole.
And no open display of hatred or disgust, for certain.
No one, not a soul except the waitresses, and even they stopped serving when Lottie performed, had eyes on anything but Lottie when she danced.