Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 135696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
I moved that way, pulled the hook lock out of its holder and pushed the door open slightly.
Riggs pulled it open the rest of the way, and my invitation to come inside was me walking to the kitchen.
He followed and put the wine down on the kitchen counter while I examined his face.
I didn’t have to examine very long before I said quietly, “It’s not good.”
“No,” he confirmed. “It’s not good. My friend, Bubbles, was beat to shit. So bad, he took so many blows to the head, they had to induce a coma in an effort to control the brain swelling.”
“Oh, Riggs,” I whispered.
He nudged the wine and said, “He’s the one who sold me this. He owns The Hole. Or that’s what locals call it. Officially, it’s The Black Hole, a bar just out of town. One of his staff came in this morning, found him unconscious in the storeroom. He went in and out of consciousness until they induced, but he was so messed up, they couldn’t get much out of him. They don’t know what happened, when it happened, why it happened or who did it. But with Bubbles, the list of culprits could be a mile long.”
“Do you want me to open the wine?” I offered.
“You got anything stiffer?” he asked.
“I could make you a gin martini.”
“Done.”
I set about doing that while asking, “Where’s Ledger?”
“He’s staying with Mom tonight.”
“Right,” I said, putting down the martini shaker and gin and heading to the fridge.
“His zygomatic bone was shattered, three ribs fractured, one punctured a lung,” Riggs went on with the litany of trauma his friend endured. “He took some hefty shots to his kidneys and is generally bruised and battered everywhere. He also has a broken wrist, but the way that’s fractured, they think it happened when he fell on it.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I said as I grabbed a martini glass.
“Hup.”
At this strange noise from him, I looked over my shoulder to see Riggs shaking his head.
For a second, I was confused.
Then I realized hyper masculine, good-time, rough and ready, big-truck driving, part-time biker guys didn’t drink out of martini glasses.
I put it down and showed him a pink glass that could be used as an old-fashioned, but it had a bulbous bee formed from the glass sticking out the side.
“This is your other choice,” I told him.
He shook his head again and said, “Martini.”
As I suspected.
I grabbed it and went back to the counter asking, “Olive or lemon twist?”
“Honey,” was his only reply.
Okay, hyper masculine, good-time, rough and ready, big-truck driving, part-time biker guys also didn’t do “sissy” things like olives and twists.
“Gotcha,” I mumbled and set about making the drink.
When I poured it through the strainer (thank you, Misted Pines postman and Williams Sonoma online store) and handed it to him, I watched in stunned silence as he downed it in one.
He then handed the glass to back to me.
“Again?” I asked with no small amount of surprise.
“Yup,” he answered.
I used the same ice and set him up again.
That time, he just took a sip.
When he was done, he set the glass to the counter, his fingers still to the stem, and said, “Fuck, Nadia, should have known Bubbles being a mostly fuckup would catch up with him.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I admitted.
“Nothing to say,” he replied.
“You wanna hang for a while?” I offered.
“Am I gonna drink alone?” he asked.
“I’ll be there with you, but I’m not imbibing tonight. Until our spat and your peace offering, I was wallowing, and a lot of that was accompanied by a bottle of wine, so I need a break.”
“Hear you.” He cocked his head. “Outside?”
I nodded mine.
He nabbed his glass and led, I followed, and we resumed the positions we had last night, with our feet up on the coffee table.
I liked sitting there with him, but it wasn’t as nice as last night, when there seemed a promise that it would go somewhere different, a promise I knew now wasn’t going to lead to fruition.
It still felt good.
He took another sip of his martini, and I watched, noting that the glass truly wasn’t him at all, but it was still appealing, watching him drink from it.
Who was I kidding?
Nearly everything about Riggs was appealing. Yes, Lord help me, even when he was being a dick.
He turned his head, caught my eyes and stated, “Angelica.”
“What?”
“Ledger’s mom.”
It seemed he didn’t want to talk about this Bubbles person anymore, and I understood why.
Anyway, I was interested in Angelica because I was interested in Riggs.
Dang.
“Right. Angelica. Talk to me,” I prompted.
I felt relief when his lips twitched with genuine amusement at my words, then he looked to the lake and said, “Actually met her at The Hole. One-night stand that came back about six weeks later telling me she was pregnant, and she wanted to keep it. Apparently, the condom broke.”