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)
“So, he doesn’t get seasonal depression; he gets seasonal obsession?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t get obsessed,” leaves me less firmly than it should. “I jus’ fuckin’ appreciate the shit, like any normal man would.” An innocent shrug is wedged between declarations. “I mean who in their right mind doesn’t appreciate things that dark,” my gaze begins traveling downward across Rabbit’s frame, “and thick?”
“I certainly do,” Kid concurs on a flirty eyebrow waggle.
“You two are the wrong kind of thirsty.”
“Or the right kind,” our boyfriend practically purrs.
However, before I can add anything to his proclamation, an unfortunate vibration in my pocket begins requiring my attention.
The instant my grip is separated from his, he mumbles under his breath, “Ifuckingknewit.”
Rather than acknowledge him, I check the tow request.
Mentally calculate the cost of me just arriving.
Weigh the decision of taking the ticket versus letting someone else.
Sure, it’s far from where I am now, but not too far from the shop.
And if they don’t need more work, that’s a quick drive back to get into their stockings.
That I like.
Maybe I’ll even have a Guinness afterward.
You know.
Just to stay in the fucking holiday spirit.
“Need to go?” Rabbit cautiously questions, redirecting my attention to her.
“Yup.”
“Ifuckingknewit,” pouts our partner as he slides an arm protectively around her waist.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Kid. You’re pissed, but can you be pissed and kiss me goodbye?”
Kipp grows an almost bashful beam – the same way he always does when I insist, he kiss me in public – indicating he won’t stay mad.
He can’t.
There’s something about having no shame in our relationship where other people can see or judge or give a fuck – despite the fact, I do not give a fuck about them – that always soothes his spirits.
Boosts his ego.
Gets him a little turned on.
Fuck, I hate that we can’t do shit about that here.
Stupid kid friendly festival.
Vacillation to brush his lips against mine is nonexistent, much like Rabbit following suit.
Both tell me goodbye – sadness poorly hidden in their respective voices – yet both receive ass squeezes that immediately put the twinkle back in their eyes.
Which is good.
I already feel fucking guilty enough having to go.
I can’t afford to feel like shit even more leaving them with “not getting that puppy you want for Christmas” expressions.
Hustling through the crowd to get back to my truck doesn’t take long, and neither does accepting the request from the customer.
The fact that most of the cops that patrol the area where our two towns meet are occupied providing assistance to the festival allows me to speed without concern of whose pockets I’m going to have to “charitably” fill, a useful tool that will shed quite a bit of time off my trip.
Or at least one that would’ve if I didn’t have to stop for fucking gas.
Frustrated grumbles pour out of me as I oscillate my glare between the fuel tank needle and the long, empty road ahead.
There’s not a gas station in either direction for a good stretch.
It’s one of the top reasons tourists call me out here.
They assume they’ve got enough to get them to the next town – our town – only to become stranded on the side of the road when they realize shits a lot further than it looks on their GPS.
I don’t mind it because it’s easy money.
Except now.
When it’s likely to cost me money.
Pulling over near the Death Canyon population sign is quickly followed by me getting out of my truck to retrieve my spare can.
See.
I told The Kid something is fucking wrong with my gage.
There has to be!
I had damn near a full tank – according to the fucking thing – when we got to the festival and now, I’m running on E?
No.
There’s no fucking way.
We don’t live that far from the city line, and it ain’t that far from fucking line to line.
Something is wrong with my fucking truck.
And I don’t like not knowing what.
Did someone fuck with it?
Has someone been fucking with it?
Am I just being paranoid because that’s what happens when you deal with a psychotic brat for months?
Once I reach the back end of my vehicle, I click the switch for the tool light I had installed, only to yet again be disappointed.
How did that stop working?
And fucking when?!
Irritated grunts become irked grumbles as I fish my phone out of my pocket, hit the flashlight button, and lift it to find the area where I keep my spare cans bolted down.
To my surprise, they’re not there.
At all.
Again.
Not fucking possible.
There’s no fucking way that my cans aren’t here.
They have to be.
Moving the light around frantically from side to side, visually inspecting the territory, convinced Kid just put them back in the wrong place, something that would be unlike him, but not nearly as fucking preposterous as the damn things growing legs and going for a fucking stroll through town.