Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 78721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“Coffee sounds good,” Dalton said. He went to the coffee pot and took a cup from the mug holder, then poured himself a cup before going to the table.
“How’s the car?” Dax asked.
Dalton knew his son was more interested in how his date had gone but was cognizant that T.A. wasn’t around.
“Fine. It doesn’t seem to be damaged.”
“How was dinner?”
“Good,” Dalton replied, taking a scalding sip of his coffee. “How’s chopping the onions going for you?”
“I’d rather be eating the cornbread that Sex Piston had me tearing apart for the dressing, but she took it away from me.”
“I had to, or there wouldn’t be any left. You can have another piece when the second pan is done.”
“I’ll chop something for you if I can get in on that deal,” Dalton offered.
Sex Piston went to the refrigerator, then came to the table to set down a bag of carrots in front of him.
“You can chop those when you’re done with breakfast.” Going to the microwave, she took out the plate of food, placing it down next to the potatoes. “Fat Louise, let Dalton have the knife and the cutting board when you’re done.”
Dalton was finishing his breakfast when Fat Louise placed the cutting board and knife near him.
“Don’t cut yourself.” Rising from the table, she carried the chopped celery to Sex Piston. “If you don’t need me, I’m going to go set the table.”
Giving him a shy glance, she left the room.
Dax carried the onions to the kitchen counter beside the stove. “If you’re done with me, I’ll go watch the game with Skulls.” Going to the sink, he started washing his hands.
“Go ahead. I’ll let you know when the cornbread is done,” Sex Piston told him, scrapping the onions into a large pan on the counter.
Dalton watched as his son escaped while he continued to chop the carrots. The room grew quiet as Sex Piston cooked.
“How many guests are coming for dinner?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“I stopped counting. Everyone knows I’m cooking, and they’re welcome at the table.”
He was trying to find out if T.A. was coming, but Sex Piston wasn’t making it easy.
“T.A. left this morning before I woke. Her neighbor came by to borrow some bread.”
“You give it to Al?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He reached for another carrot wondering how many to cut.
“Is she coming to dinner? I wanted to thank her for letting me stay last night.”
She turned around to face him, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“T.A. doesn’t eat Thanksgiving dinner with us. I guess you’ll have to call to say your good-byes.” Turning, she started a blender. Frowning at her unfriendly attitude, he was bewildered by the change in her. Both times he had been around her before, she had been anything but aloof. Now it was downright chilly.
He waited until she turned the mixer off to broach the change in her behavior.
“Have I done anything to offend you?”
She turned back around. “Why did you ask T.A. who everyone’s favorite is? I don’t like anyone pitting my bitches against each other.”
Dalton sized Sex Piston up with narrowed eyes. He was a man who wouldn’t take shit from anyone, man or woman.
“I wasn’t trying to start an argument between your friends; I was just trying to find out what T.A.’s position was within your group.”
“There are no positions in our group,” she denied, her eyes narrowing back at his.
“From the answers she was giving, I don’t agree with that statement.”
The red-haired woman’s hair practically bristled in anger at his words, her mouth firming in a thin line.
“By the way, how did you know what questions I asked?” The disappointment over T.A. repeating his answers was a hard pill to swallow. He had let his guard down. Was she going to post his answers online for everyone to see?
“You can shove that hoity-toity nose up your ass. She was texting us the whole time. By the way,” she mocked, “T.A. did it because she knew how fucking crazy Crazy Bitch, Fat Louise, and Killyama are over you, and she was giving them the opportunity to ask you the questions they were too embarrassed to ask themselves. That’s what good friends do, so you don’t have to fucking worry about anyone finding out you’re a dick.”
Dalton continued to chop the carrot, unfazed by her anger. He had dealt with worse.
“I’m not being a dick; did she tell you that she considers herself a filler?”
She looked just as confused as he had last night.
“What in the fuck is a filler?”
Dalton repeated what T.A. told him last night.
“I’m going to kick that bitch’s ass when she comes to work tomorrow. She’s no fucking filler.”
“Obviously, she feels that way.”
She walked forward, placing her palms on the table as she glared down at him.
“Why did you ask who our favorites are?”
“I noticed that when she was at the hospital, she looked hurt that Killyama didn’t want her to come to see her the next day.”