Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 70444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
My attempt at righting my wrongs—by getting my degree in criminal science—hadn’t stopped them from reminding me that they thought I was a piece of trash.
Something they did regularly every single time I walked by.
Amanda often asked me what my attachment was to this place—Hostel—but I couldn’t answer her.
Nobody knew why I stayed—and sometimes I wondered why myself.
But truthfully, it all had to do with a certain person, and no one was going to force me out of my home making it so that I couldn’t visit Tennessee anymore.
Tennessee wasn’t a place, either. It was a person.
My person.
My best friend for forever—my grandfather. The one who took care of me when my parents refused. The one who shielded me when life got too tough. The one who held my hand and told me when what I was doing was wrong—and there were a lot of those times. He’d been there when nobody else had cared, and I would be here until he was gone from this Earth, regardless of whether I hated this town with a passion or not.
When he was gone, that’s when I would leave this place and never look back.
Until then, I’d grit my teeth and bear it.
“I think that, in my honest opinion, you should remove the sticker,” the officer said, interrupting my thoughts. “As for the rest, I’m giving you three tickets. One for your license being expired, another for going four over the speed limit, and one for rolling through that stop sign.”
My mouth fell open in shock.
“You’re giving me what?!” I screeched.
“Three tickets.” He repeated.
He was giving me three tickets?
What the hell?
“What the hell for?”
How the hell was I supposed to pay for that? Sell myself on the street?
Then again, with my luck, he’d probably catch me doing it and give me a ticket for that, too.
He handed me the ticket and continued. “I’m letting you go on the broken tail light, but see to getting that fixed right away.” I looked at the paper like it was covered in mold.
“Well, isn’t that nice of you.” I sneered.
I didn’t want to take it. Taking it meant that I was agreeing with the charges, but what other option did I have?
None.
Reaching forward, I took the ticket, shoved it angrily in my pocket, and then turned my back on him to get back into my truck.
But something made me look over my shoulder at him, and my eyes went to the officer’s chest, right above his badge, to his name. Mackenzie.
Well, Officer Mackenzie, you fucking suck.
Moments later, I laughed when the ol’ piece of junk Ford four-speed diesel shot black smoke in his direction.
Then I flipped him off because he couldn’t see me do it.
I wanted to give my grandfather a big ol’ kiss on the cheek for buying it for me.
When I arrived at the apartment I shared with Amanda, I walked to the back of the truck and fixed the taillight with the spare that Grandpa always made me keep in the glove box. Then, I gave the sticker a cursory look.
After a few long moments, I decided that I needed to keep it.
Because there was one thing I was still sure of…at least one officer at HPD still sucked.
Chapter 3
It is not nice to bait traps with donuts. Cops are needed to keep this city safe. So, if you happen to catch one, please remember that they need to be promptly released.
-Hostel PD Facebook page
Johnny
The ringing of my phone made my eyes twitch.
“Give me a second, would you?” I asked, stepping away from a couple of cops and placing the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hi, is this John?”
I frowned, then pulled the phone away from my face.
I’d been expecting a phone call—from my bank—but my bank called me ‘Johnny.’ Nobody ever called me John. I didn’t go by John, mostly because my name was Johnny. It said so on my birth certificate.
“This is Johnny,” I corrected him as I put the phone back to my ear. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, sorry. Yes, this is Coke Solomon.” I frowned. I’d heard the name before, but I couldn’t place where, exactly, I’d heard it. “I own Coke Salvage & Impound.”
The light went on in my head. “Oh, hi. How’s it goin’?”
The moment I heard ‘Coke’ I knew exactly who this guy was. We’d had a call at his place about four days ago. A man had been trying to break into the salvage yard to steal his car back after it’d been impounded. Coke had caught him—or technically, his junkyard dog, Hooch, had—and then we were called out there.
“It’s going.” He laughed. “Listen, I have a girl who’s applying for a job with me, and she put you down as a reference.”
I frowned. Nobody I knew—at least not girl-wise—would need a job. They were already working—and most of them were working with family and wouldn’t need a reference.