Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 122074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
“Who’s your dad?” His voice rose, more shrill, and I could see the green face paint start to drip.
“Shorty Easter. You know who he is?”
His eyes jerked to the name of my bowling alley. I had it in neon letters above the bar. Easter Lanes. Anyone who was anyone knew that Marcus Easter, a.k.a. Shorty, was basically owned by the Walden family. He gambled at their establishments, but he also gambled for them. I knew his debt to them was so deep that he’d have to live nine lifetimes before paying anything back, but he had other uses, and I knew they used him for those. What they were, I never asked and never wanted to know, but I knew he did jobs for them.
The robber backed all the way up until he hit the door. His rifle slumped down, and he almost dropped it to the ground. “Oh, shit.”
It wasn’t my dad’s name that was causing this change of mind. It was who owned him. I never wanted to use their name, ever, but this was a life-and-death type of situation. A girl had to do what a girl had to do to not get ripped off.
“The Waldens own my father. You coming in here, threatening his daughter, his business. That’s going to have some consequences for you.”
His eyes were really bulging out now. “Oh, fuck. Fuck!” He was plastered against the door, shaking his head. The desperation was edging in him because I was also feeling it, just in a different way. Easter Lanes was the only place I had that was me. Out of all my other homes, nothing stayed. Foster. Shelters. Nothing held.
No one stuck, but this place did. I would not let someone take that away from me, and hear me roar because I was a mama lioness protecting my cub. I was desperate and a lunatic right now, but I didn’t care.
He was going to leave. It was the only play he had left. Get out. Run. Get away as far and as fast as he could go. I was waiting for him to accept that choice, but suddenly he jerked away from the door. His rifle snapped back up.
“If what you say is true, then I’m fucked! Fucked, lady. So I figure you owe me. You want me gone? I need money. If not, I’m dead anyways, and we both know it. You give me all your cash, and I’m gone. Yeah, yeah. I’ll go, but I need cash. What do you have?”
He reached forward, trying to grab me, and I recoiled, feeling the switch happening.
Oh, no.
I blanked.
Coming back, the sound of screaming was all around me, and there was red. Everything was dark red. My hand. My arm. I—
“Oh, good god! Molly!”
I felt a body rushing toward me and jerked around. They stopped, almost falling backward to halt their momentum. Their hands went up, and they were shaking. “Molly.”
It was Pialto, my bartender.
“Molly.” He dropped his voice, low and calm. Soothing. His hands lowered a little, and he took a step closer to me. “Move back, Molly. Back up. One step.”
I started to step to the side, but my foot caught on something, and my gaze jerked downward.
A foot was there.
A leg.
Blood.
There was blood everywhere.
Terror sliced through me.
A body was there. Spread out.
My other employee, Sophie, was on the right side of the body. She had a phone in her hand as she bent down and picked up the rifle. Her whole body was shaking too.
Oh, no.
What had happened? What had I done?
“Is he . . . is he breathing?”
“Molly.” Pialto was beside me now. I could feel him and hear him, and I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me. He touched my arm. The touch was off. Felt weird. I looked at him, for some reason wanting to tell him that, but I didn’t.
A part of my brain was still working while the other part of my brain was turned off.
I was numb while also half feeling at the same time. That didn’t make sense either. It was all very weird.
I’d shot the green-faced robber.
He’d reached for me. I’d panicked, and my finger had pulled the trigger.
I hadn’t known what he was going to do, and I’d reacted.
I’d done my thing again. My switch.
It wasn’t the best name, but the best way to describe that sometimes, when I felt backed into a corner, I did things. I reacted or overreacted or irrationally reacted, and most times it made things worse. It was something I was working on, but I’d swallowed the register key. I’d shot a guy. Both big “switch” moments, and oh boy.
I was officially freaking out.
I. Shot. Someone!
“She’s freaking.”
Pialto was a genius. He was tuned in to my mind.
“Oh, man.”
I always liked Sophie.
I’d miss her. I’d miss Pialto too. He’d have to manage the place for me. Or I could ask Jess. Yes. I’d ask another friend of mine. She had, well, she had some flexibility with her new work, or she’d know someone who could run it for me. Her man might help. But not my dad. He’d try to take over the bowling alley while I was in prison. I couldn’t let that happen. No. I needed to call—