Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
That’s part of the reason why I’ve stayed here in Dallas.
Most folks think I’ve kept so low-key because I’ve been doing PI stuff for more than random private clients. That’s not the full story.
Ridge and Grady know my past is serious business, even if I’ve never told them everything.
I’ve hinted it’s gotten good people killed on long nights at the Bobcat after hours, when it’s just me, the boys, and an endless supply of beers.
Not something I plan on ever letting happen again.
I hit the outskirts of town with the speedometer cranked up, slowing down only enough to make the first corner onto the street Tory mentioned.
Within a few blocks, I see the trailer and hit the brakes. The truck skids to a stop at the end of the driveway.
Tory stands next to the truck with the trailer attached, and Owl’s planted between her and two mean-looking strangers. A lady and some fuck who looks like he lives for bad tattoos and bar fights.
Leaping out of the truck, I slam the door shut and approach, but before I say anything, someone calls my name.
That woman’s voice makes my skin crawl.
Carolina Dibs.
A local barfly who looks like she’s been ridden hard and put away wet so many times I wonder if there’s any sober grey matter left in her skull.
She saunters toward me, flashing this syrupy little smile.
“I’ve missed you, Faulk,” Carolina says with a fake southern drawl that she thinks sounds sexy.
Like hell. It really sounds like she’s smoked a cigar factory.
She’s also implying we know each other far better than we do, and that pisses me right off.
I’m not stupid.
The few times I’ve seen her at the Purple Bobcat, I’ve kept my distance. The first man of several to turn her down before she winds up going home with whatever the night’s flavor of passerby is. Someone who doesn’t know her and won’t ever lay eyes on her again.
I don’t respond. Instead, I scan Tory, making sure she’s all right as I walk toward her.
“What’s going on here? These two giving you trouble?”
“I just dropped the goats off for the landlord. Supposed to be a quick and easy job, but...” She trails off, nodding at the lot behind her.
“I pay rent here, Faulk,” Carolina says as she steps up beside me. “I told her I don’t want those animals stinking up the place. They crap everywhere, especially if they’re eating up all the junk growing over there.”
I’m hardly listening.
The man standing between the front of Tory’s truck and the back of a beat-up, faded orange Dodge is a bigger concern. He takes a step back as soon as he sees me.
It’s slight, but I notice.
Weird. I’ve never seen him around town before, but I don’t know everyone.
It could be one of her random hookups, a biker or trucker, or maybe some dude who’s passing through town for a quick contractor job.
“The goats aren’t what you should be worried about stinking up the place,” I say, glaring at the man.
He squares his shoulders and scowls, knowing I’m mincing no words.
“She pays rent and she has rights to what happens here,” the man snarls, folding his arms, flexing his muscle like I’m supposed to be scared.
Laughable. Besides being bigger, I’m plenty sure I can show this rat how to chew the cheddar with one hand tied behind my back.
“Rights?” I echo, barking out a false laugh. Glancing at Tory, I ask her, “Did either of these two pricks threaten you?”
“Oh, no, nothing so sinister! You know me, Faulk.” Carolina jumps in with a fluttery, innocent wave before Tory can answer. “We just...we don’t want those goats here.”
Ignoring Carolina, I keep my eyes glued to Tory.
Her attempt to force a grin fails as she shakes her head no.
Yeah, I don’t buy it.
She’s not intimidated that easily, but she’s scared witless right now.
Something happened here.
I also notice how she’d quickly glanced at the man, her eyes lingering near his waistband.
Since she wouldn’t be caught dead ogling his type, it isn’t hard to guess why.
Certain what I’ll find, I launch forward several steps and grab the guy by the front of his shirt with one hand.
My other hand reaches down, tugging the gun out of his waistband in one swift pull before he’s able to even think about pushing me back.
“What the fuck!” he shouts, fighting for his gun a second too late.
“My turn.” I stick the barrel into his stomach, just below his ribs. “Got a permit for this piece?”
It’s been a while since I’ve handled a weapon in a precarious situation, but nobody ever called me rusty. I’ll also bet every dime in my bank account a dirt bag like him would never qualify for a permit in any state.
He has trouble written all over his ugly mug. A life of crime and violence.