Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80302 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80302 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
He sticks around, waiting as the bar slows, people closing out their tabs and heading home. I have to call several more cabs for those that imbibed a little too much, letting them know that their keys will be available when the bar opens for lunch tomorrow. With it being locals who are well aware of the rules, I get no arguments. It doesn’t hurt that Ugly has been belly up to the bar since he came out of the bathroom. There aren’t many people willing to argue when he’s paying attention to the conversation.
“Need help with anything?” he asks after I lock the front door and wipe down the bar.
“You trying to get out of paying your tab?”
He shakes his head, chuckling, as he pulls his wallet from his back pocket. He closes his tab, giving me the ability to do the nightly paperwork and count the till.
It takes another half hour to make sure everything is ready for the lunch shift tomorrow before I’m able to get him home. He doesn’t seem to mind, and he doesn’t rush me through the nightly routine.
It isn’t until he stands from the bar stool with a little stumble to his steps that I realize the man is drunk. He grins wide, shrugging his shoulders as he catches himself before he topples over. The man is absolutely adorable in a he-could-kill-me-with-one-hand sort of way.
“You alright?” I ask, as he slowly makes his way to the front door.
“I’m tired as hell,” he says, his words slow.
“Let’s get you home then.”
He follows me to my truck, a blue, single cab, Chevy S10 I’ve had forever.
He pulls his phone from his back pocket just before climbing into the passenger seat. He grunts as he gets settled, his phone resting on his lap as his eyes flutter closed. I laugh at the way he makes it sound like it’s almost too much effort to move.
He’s snoring lightly before we even make it to the turn leading to the clubhouse.
I haven’t been out this way in a very long time. The road ends in a dead end, meaning no one comes this way unless their intention is to end up at the clubhouse or they get lost.
A row of houses line the street across from the clubhouse. Those weren’t there the one time I ended up on this end of town. Even then, I used the turnaround area at the very end of the street, taking heed of the no trespassing sign on the fence at the entrance to the Cerberus clubhouse.
There’s no massive sign indicating that it’s Cerberus land. There isn’t the huge three-headed dog insignia that graces the leather cuts the members wear, but there’s still a sense of foreboding about the place. Not in a way that makes me feel like I’ll be hurt if I turn into the parking lot but that I’m not welcome without an invitation.
Ugly’s head is canted to the side in a way that makes me concerned for his posture as I put the vehicle in park.
I know it’s devious, but my eyes dart down to the phone in his lap.
I should do exactly what Boomer has done with me and avoid him at all costs, but I know I’ll never be able to manage it.
I’m risking making a complete mess of things when I reach for Ugly’s phone, but it’s not enough to stop me.
I turn the thing in his direction, holding it a foot from his face when it asks for a code. Thankfully, the face recognition software opens it for me. I don’t go digging through the man’s phone. I’m on a mission, hunting for one thing only.
I stare at Boomer’s contact information, memorizing his number before closing out of the contact list and locking the phone. I know it will be seen as a breach of trust, and that’s why I’ve almost convinced myself that I won’t use it.
“What are you doing with my phone?” Ugly asks, no alarm in his tone when I try to put it back on his lap.
“I was going to give you my number in case you wanted to thank me for giving you a ride home.” I wink at him, unsure if he’d even be able to see it in the darkness of the truck.
He chuckles. “I figured you’d be trying to get Boomer’s number.”
His tone is even. There’s no teasing or question to it at all. It’s a matter-of-fact statement that has no hint of explanation. It doesn’t say that Boomer talks about me. It doesn’t say that he’d be fine if Boomer and I hooked up.
They’re just words, much like they’d sound if he told me he had a burger and fries for lunch.
I reach for the ignition, but his words stop me.
“There’s no point in turning off the truck. You can’t go inside.”