Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Rancid pangs of doubt filled my churning stomach. Stark would do anything to ensure I suffered for the rest of my natural life. Maybe he planned to sit in the morgue until I was firmly on my way to prison.
God knew that Montgomery Stark was a patient man.
Sheriff Idiot promptly returned, his tired face not giving anything away.
“Well?” I stood, eager to know what he’d seen.
“Masie, what the devil is going on?”
“He’s gone, isn’t he?” I said.
Thomas just stared.
“Tell me!” I slapped the table again.
“The body’s still there. Now, you tell me why you killed that man.”
I felt like the world had been pulled out from beneath my feet. I sank into the chair, the weight of my body too much to hold up.
“Masie?” Thomas pushed.
I nodded, feeling myself drift further away from any hope of getting out of the mess and stopping Montgomery Stark. “You remember last month, when I was attacked?”
CHAPTER TWO
One month earlier
“No, Ashley. I’m not taking your shift.” I shoved the twenty back in her hand. “You know I hate workin’ Friday nights.” And twenty dollars wasn’t nearly enough to change my mind. The customers at the Flaming Rooster always got lit up and handsy on Friday nights, which was why I stuck to daytime shifts.
“Please, Masie? Beau got us tickets to see Travis Roads and the Wash-Ups.”
Beau was her boyfriend who worked as a bouncer at some big bar in Nashville. I didn’t go to bars, concerts, or anywhere temptation might be lurking for this good girl. The Flaming Rooster was the only exception. I needed the work, and technically, it was a family business.
My uncle Jimmie owned the Flaming Rooster and the distillery next door. I started working in the warehouse in high school to help out Mamma with the bills. She worked here, too, up until she retired. As for Jimmie, he was a good man but didn’t believe in handouts. If you needed money, he’d give you a job, but that was all. Not that I minded working. I liked paying my own way. It just felt right.
“Well,” I said, swapping out the saltshaker on table thirty with a fresh one from my tray, “then Beau should’ve asked you last week when Jimmie was makin’ up the schedule.” Plus, it was my time of the month, and my back was killing me. If I weren’t working for tips, I’d be wearing sweats instead of my respectably short denim skirt.
I moved to the next table, helping the evening shift get ready. We usually had three servers, a busser, a bartender, and three in the kitchen. Any more than that and we were all bumping into each other.
Luckily, speedy service wasn’t why the locals came to the Rooster. They came to kick it, drink, listen to the jukebox, and eat fried food. Chicken, frog legs, alligator, and even string beans. If it could be battered, we fried it and served it. Sides of slaw and sour cream cornbread complimentary, of course.
Ashley was right behind me like a dog chasing a bone. “Please, Masie? I promise I’ll take your early shift tomorrow. I know you love sleeping in. Plus, you’ll make twice as much tonight in tips. It’s a win-win.” Ashley batted her thick black lashes. She wore way too much mascara, in my opinion, and her hair was so bleached out that it sometimes blended in with the bales of hay stacked against the wall near the entrance. Ashley also wore her cutoffs just below her labia. One false move, and you just might see some ovary.
Still, she was as sweet as pie and impossible to say no to. Ashley was the type of friend who’d bring soup when you were sick or bake you sugar cookies just because.
“Fine. I’ll take your shift, but I’ll need your extra shirt.” I’d been working since ten a.m., and mine smelled like French fry grease and stale beer. Ashley usually had an extra clean shirt in her locker. Like I said, Friday nights got rowdy, and that meant spilled drinks, food down your cleavage, or wearing whatever happened to be on your tray when a drunk cowboy slammed into you.
“You’re the best.” She jumped up and down and then hugged me, nearly toppling my tray.
I rolled my eyes. “I know.”
She let me go. “Oh, and can you tell Jimmie we swapped?” She bit her lower lip.
“You didn’t tell him yet?”
She shook her head, fresh guilt on her frosty pink lips.
“Girl, you’re the worst,” I said.
“I know. But that’s why I have you. We balance each other out.” She sounded like my older sister, Maybell, who was two years older but acted five years younger. She was always getting in trouble and then saying it was okay because I “balanced out” the universe with my good nature.
“Go get my shirt, but when you’re back there, you tell Jimmie.” People here thought I got some kind of special treatment for being the boss’s niece, but nothing could be further from the truth. Jimmie did not like people messing with the schedule, mostly because he was so busy running two businesses.