Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Anyone who looks suspicious.
Like they’re paying more attention to me than the “go team” speech by their beloved law enforcement.
Unexpected shivers suddenly rush up my spine as if someone’s stare has now latched onto me, and there’s no stopping my body from tensing in discomfort.
Who is it?!
Where are they?!
Why don’t they have the balls to show themselves?!
“Relax, Rabbit,” Nolan grumps under his breath, body tucking itself tighter against mine. “He ain’t talkin’ about you.”
Rather than confess that I’m not listening – or that I stopped listening due to being in a room full of strangers I’m not sure we should trust – I urgently proceed with my scanning of the people on the opposite half of the space, searching for the eerie feeling’s host.
The sight of a middle-aged, sandy beige skinned male repeatedly cutting curious glances in my direction leads me to whispering a question to my boyfriend on the right, “Who’s the guy on the other side of the aisle, about four rows up?”
Nolan’s dark glare steals a small, inconspicuous glimpse before answering, “Wayland.” Our eyes momentarily meet. “Runs a big hotel chain. He’s married to English.”
“How the fuck are you married to a language?!”
A mirth-filled eye roll is given. “Her name is English. She runs the local B&B. It’s the only place you can stay in town if you don’t already know someone.”
“The place with no vacancies?”
“It definitely had fucking vacancies.” He narrows his stare yet again in amusement. “The Kid was just being a stubborn little shit.”
“He learned it from watching you.”
“Behave or you won’t be gettin’ any carrots for dessert.”
Post flashing a mischievous smirk, I ask, “Is there a reason he keeps looking over here?”
At that, Nolan steals a second glance that inspires him to arrogantly grin. “Probably because he can see your nipples through that sweater and fucking around on his wife is his favorite sport.”
Disgusted gags immediately escape me.
“I prefer football or Formula 1.”
“Is anyone in this fucking place faithful?”
“Us.” The lack of humor in his statement is accompanied by a possessive stroke of my bottom lip. “And never forget that.”
Having the digit within toying range prompts me to deliver the tiniest lick to his calloused thumb. Hungry grumbles barely being trapped behind gritted teeth is swiftly followed by me winking and leaning away to nestle closer to my other boyfriend who seems to be paying extremely close attention to the dark hickory shaded older gentleman that is now speaking behind the podium.
“Who’s that?” I quietly investigate, grateful we’re in the far back corner where we’re least likely to garner a vast amount of attention.
“Pastor Burton,” Kipp replies at the same muted volume, fingers beginning a light, loving stroke.
“The one whose wife was on her knees for a different type of worship?!”
The corner of his lips twitches a smirk. “That’d be the one.”
“And where is she?”
“Other side. Front row. Edge seat.”
My gaze gravitates to the shorthaired, toasted brown skin, full figure woman who is fanning her round face with an old-style folded fan and waving the other hand around in spiritual agreement.
It’s not that hot in here.
Then again, maybe she’s practicing her routine for the funeral that I’m told we have to attend because not attending would be suspicious.
And the last thing we want is everyone watching us.
Thinking we were somehow responsible for November’s untimely death.
Placing the blame where it doesn’t belong.
I argued – for hours – with Kipp, Nolan, and Garcia that it was my fault.
That because it’s my ex…my demon…that caused the prophecy spewer to retire early from living, I was secondhandedly responsible for his murder.
That I should bear some of the shame.
The guilt.
The burden.
None of them were willing to hear it.
No matter how hard I screamed.
And I fucking screamed until The Kid had to make me tea to soothe my throat.
It turns out he makes a mean cup of that shit too.
I honestly think if a life of cars didn’t work out for him, he could’ve made it as a chef.
Or…at the very least a fancy barista like you’d find at Contes De La Couronne Yacht Club back in Florida.
Despite the fact, the hairs on the back of my neck have yet to go down – indicating that it wasn’t the cheating hotel creeper making them stand up – I keep my visual hunting momentarily halted to inquire, “And who’s the redhead directly behind her?”
This time there’s noticeable hesitation to answer.
Hesitation I don’t like.
“Kid.”
He does his best to remain silent.
“Kid.”
Still nothing.
“Kipp.”
Against his own volition, he whispers, “Jolene.”
“Jolene?!” the loud hiss of her name causes him to shoot me a disapproving glare. “Like…the Jolene?!”
He glances around me to see if Nolan was disturbed by my outburst before confirming, “Yeah. That Jolene.”
“What’s she doing here?”
“She technically still works here.”
“Funny, I don’t remember seeing any strip clubs during our walking town tour.”
The Kid does his best to swallow his snicker. “She strips a couple times a week for extra cash-”