Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
See?
Stupid cocky.
“Are you talking about that college guy?” I asked fake-innocently.
“You know I am,” he answered, knowing I was playing fake.
“Well, he’d slut-shamed her into dropping the charges. He and his buds’ bullshit on social media destroyed her after they’d already violated her. She’s quit school. Girls have committed suicide over stuff like that. Gotten into drugs. Cutting. Their lives are forever ruined even if they pull through it and find help to carry on in a healthy way,” I returned. “So, I don’t know anything about this Avenging Angel person, but if they did that, I applaud them.”
“I’m not defending him,” Mason pointed out. “He’s a piece of shit. Him roofied, naked, alone, and somewhere he doesn’t know where he is or if worse is yet to come, covered in honey and crawling ants would not be the way I’d deal with him, but it works. The point I’m trying to make is, you’re not a piece of shit. And you could get fucked up by doing that crap. He’s too humiliated to press charges. But the next guy you run up against might not be the same.”
“I’m not this Avenging Angel,” I lied again. “I just…” Nope. Not gonna go there. “Got interested in Elsie Fay’s case. I’m a true crime buff.” Lame! (Though true.) “You’re right. I should have called the police. There won’t be a next time, but should that very unusual incident occur, I promise to call the cops. Now, will one of you take me back to my car? Lenny’s closes soon.”
Mason turned to Jackson and lifted his brows.
Jackson pushed away from the wall and grunted, “Come on.”
He would not have been my choice, mostly because, in any other circumstance but this one, he totally would be my choice.
But whatevs.
I got out of my chair and said, “Nice to meet you, Kai.”
“Mace,” he corrected me. “Only my wife and mother call me Kai.”
“Right,” I mumbled, gave him a salute with one finger to my brow and out, ignored him appearing amused again, then followed Jackson out of the office.
“Can I make a pit stop?” I requested. “I have dumpster hands.”
He said nothing, but reversed directions to take me to a bathroom in their office suite.
It was swish. Black walls. Recessed lighting. Backlit mirrors. White bowl sinks looking stark and stylish on a matte black counter. Contrasting blond wood floors and matching wood stalls. An attractive white planter in the back corner with a healthy green plant in it.
It did not say PI’s office. It said five-star hotel.
I did my thing, then I did it again for good measure. I considered a third go but decided that was maybe a hint over the top. After that, I walked out to Jackson waiting.
He was silent through the reception area and into the hall. He was also silent down the elevator to the parking garage (their offices were on the fifth floor of the high-rise). He remained silent as he bleeped the locks on one of seven shiny black Denalis lined up right next to the elevator. And he was silent when we got in. He pulled out and we were on our way.
It was me who broke the silence when he pulled into Lenny’s drive-thru.
Okay, maybe he wasn’t totally infuriating.
“Thank the good Lord above,” I said.
He had no response.
He didn’t quite make the menu board when he stopped and turned to me.
“Just the malt?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Also a cowboy burger. No tomato. Stress that. I don’t want even one slimy seed to ruin the perfection of the burger. Tots. And the malt needs to be vanilla. Oh! And a root beer. No, Orange Crush. No! Root beer.”
Jackson didn’t move, just kept staring at me.
“Root beer,” I firmly decided.
He looked forward then the SUV inched forward.
I was realizing how this wasn’t going to be a great thing (even if it was a great thing, Lenny’s was always great, even though, if you went inside the one on Central, you might be eating your burger or pastrami next to a meth addict, a couple sex workers, some hipsters, some skaters, and a Scottsdale socialite slumming it to cheat on her Whole30 diet where no one could see her—in other words, the vibe could be mixed, though, in my opinion, that was part of the fun), because this wasn’t McDonald’s. The drive-thru at Lenny’s took a while.
Part two of this predicament was that I’d left my wallet in my glove compartment in Tweety.
“Um, my wallet’s in my car,” I told him.
“My shout,” he said.
“I’ll pay you back,” I promised.
“You bet your ass you will,” he murmured so low I barely caught it, but couldn’t ask after it since he was leaning forward to pull out his wallet due to the fact the cashier had opened her window.