Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
She barks back a yes. I grab my backpack from the floor of the car and dump the contents of it on the seat, assessing the inside of it. “This’ll fit a cat,” I say, determination powering me on as I slide the pack onto my shoulders.
I shut the passenger door, rush over to the side of the building, and crane my neck. Steven’s on the second floor. That balcony is about ten feet high. There’s a cat door right over there. I’m limber. I can wiggle into it and rescue my girl.
There’s no time to waste. I jump.
Um, was that a one-foot jump?
I squat, then push off again, blasting up…a foot and a half.
Why didn’t I pursue gymnastics?
But all I have to do is get a good boost. I pace around the parking lot, hunting for anything. A chair. A table. A suitcase.
Yes, a suitcase!
I rush back to my car, pop the trunk, and grab my carry-on, hauling it back to beneath the balcony. I step up on it and try again.
And I’m still a foot away.
I hunt through the lot, spotting a…garden gnome by a storage shed.
Desperate times…I grab the red and green dude that’s about a foot wide and rush back. I set it on its side on the suitcase and climb my makeshift step stool under the balcony.
I jump again. My arm gets maybe a foot away from my goal.
Okay, almost there. That’s half a foot. I need a bit more boost.
Books!
Back to the car. I yank open the backseat door, grab several paperbacks my book club friends gave me, and run.
“It’s for a good cause,” I tell the books, then I spread them on top of the suitcase, set the gnome on its side on the books, and step onto its red concrete ass.
I give it everything I’ve got.
And a few seconds later, I’m dangling from the balcony by one arm.
2
SAVE THE CAT
Rhys
I almost want to lose a hockey game so the three of us can stop eating sushi.
Almost.
I’ve had raw fish far too much over the last two weeks of wins, and Gavin’s superstitions are just about killing my love of dragon rolls.
“I’m just saying, I don’t reckon it would ruin our streak if we ate curry. Or Thai. Or a fucking sandwich now and then,” I point out as we walk through Russian Hill with—surprise, surprise—sushi leftovers in a small paper bag. The regular crew went to the same sushi place tonight following an afternoon victory. Gavin, Hollis, and me. Again.
“Don’t mess with a streak, man,” Gavin says, implacable in his superstitions.
“But you change your socks, right?” Hollis asks with genuine curiosity.
“I’m not a savage,” Gavin answers, but the question gives me an idea—a new tactic I mull briefly as we turn onto Polk Street, since we’re going to do a walk-by of a building we’re thinking of buying some rental property in.
I turn to Gavin, meeting his stoic gaze. “That’s a fair point. Do you truly think the thing we eat after a win contributes to the streak?”
Before Gavin can even speak, Hollis brings a hand to his forehead, like I’ve blown his mind. Good. We don’t call Hollis the Magician for nothing. He can work his magic on our broody teammate with his charm.
“Rhys has got you there,” Hollis says, revving himself up apparently as he makes the case. “Now, if we were eating sushi before a game, maybe that’d be what caused the streak.” He snaps his fingers. “Hey, idea. And this is borderline brilliant. But what if we tested the Viscount’s theory by getting fish tacos before the next home game?”
Hollis has been calling me that since I joined the team. He decided I’m secretly royal on account of being from London, and I don’t dispel him of that notion. As for his proposal, that’s still a lot of seafood, but tacos are tacos, and at least it might set Gavin free of his streak superstitions.
“I’d be amenable,” I put in, like I wasn’t trying to architect this in the first place.
But Gavin scowls, his motorcycle boots clomping against the sidewalk. He’s as good at scowling as he is at blocking shots. “Too risky.”
Of course it wouldn’t be that easy to move a brick wall. “So is too much of a good thing,” I add as we near the building we’re meaning to check out.
“Like winning?” Gavin retorts, but the question dies when we reach the parking lot, his gaze snapping instantly to the far end. “Is that woman doing parkour off her balcony or is she trying to break into an apartment?”
At the end of the second-story row of apartments, a blonde woman is gripping the bars of the railing and trying, but failing, to hoist herself American Ninja Warrior style onto the balcony.
She’s wearing pink yoga pants, bright white sneakers, and a mint green cropped hoodie. Her long, sleek ponytail is poised high on her head, and a purple backpack is looped over her shoulders. Granted, I don’t keep up on the latest fashion trends among robbers, but I’d have figured head-to-toe black and perhaps a beanie in the same shade would be suitable if she were nicking something.