Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Water. Foreign concept. I’ll explain.
After Jesse dumped my ass, I decided the best course of action was drinking myself into lengthy periodic comas, so I did that for, like, four days. Every time I would wake, I would text her something or try to call. Remind her that I was still alive-ish, even though she hadn’t replied, then go back to bleaching my liver with alcohol.
Bane
I love you.
Bane
Tell me if you need anything.
Bane
Hell, I NEED SOMETHING. You.
Bane
Is this what a spiral feels like? It looks much more amusing when you’re on the outside, judging it on other people.
Working and surfing weren’t really a priority. Café Diem kept itself afloat thanks to Gail, and I was sure Hale was happy taking over the other side of my business. Beck, however, was rightly pissed. I’d dropped the ball on him, and broken all his toes in the process.
I was wondering who was going to finally pull me out of my misery. I kind of gave up on Jesse answering me. Like, ever. Gail clammed up on me and wouldn’t talk to me about her, so the frontrunners to pull me out of bed and back into my miserable life were Mom, who’d stopped by twice and left me borderline psychotic voice messages, and Edie, who’d pulled the I’m-pregnant-and-hormonal card.
But in the end, it was Sheriff Diaz.
“Protsenko, open up before I kick this flimsy thing down.” My door rattled to his knock, as if confirming the statement. If he thought I had fucks to give, he clearly hadn’t checked in my fuck-bag lately, because that shit was empty.
“Make me,” I yawned from my bed. Mom had probably whined his ear off to come have a talk with me. She knew we’d gotten close since the police station had been my second home when I was a teenager.
“If you make me get a warrant, we’re gonna have some trouble, kid.”
I loved that he called me ‘kid’ even though I was twenty-five and fucked his wife in five hundred positions on the reg.
“A warrant for what?” I snort-laughed, rolling onto my stomach and scratching my ass. “Drinking myself to death? This shit’s still legal, sir.”
He was silent for a second, calculating his words carefully. “There’s a lot of new information about Jesse Carter. Might want to rethink the death part.”
That’s all it took to make me stand up and open the door. Diaz pulled up his pants over his beer belly, his mouth dropping open in astonishment. “Wow. You look like crap.”
“Oh, shit. I was just on my way to an America’s Next Top Model audition,” I groaned, pulling my hair into a half-assed bun. “Guess I’ll have to wait for next year. Make yourself at home.”
I offered him the only thing I had available—tap water and pot—and he politely declined both. With the state of the houseboat, I was surprised he agreed to sit down at the edge of my couch without draping a towel over it. I plopped on a beanbag opposite him, crossing my legs, giving him a wolfish, fake smile.
“Spill it,” I ordered, and for the first time in days, I actually wasn’t flippant and goddamn dead on the inside.
Brian took his hat off, always a good sign if you’re looking for a dramatic announcement, and tipped his chin down. He was a short, balding man with freckles covering the better half of his face, lips included. Whatever was left of his fuzzy hair was the color of Cheetos. He looked tragic. “Where should I begin?”
“From the middle. I love stories that begin right in the middle,” I deadpanned.
He rolled his eyes. “Goddamn millennials. Let’s start with the freshest news I’m sure you’ve heard—Darren Morgansen is dead.”
As evident from the way my jaw hit the fucking floor, it was not, in fact, something I was aware of. Sheriff Diaz’s eyes bulged a little before he cleared his throat and rearranged himself on the edge of my sofa, nearly grimacing at the open Styrofoam takeout containers. I was normally on top of things. If I had interest in someone, I’d know where they were at any given moment and what time they took their daily shit. But I’d been too busy feeling sorry for myself for the past week to follow Darren.
“Yup. Suicide by gunshot. His stepdaughter found him.”
“Jesse?” I perked just from hearing her mentioned. It was a whole other realm of pathetic, but at least I owned up to it.
Brian shrugged. “He only had one stepdaughter.”
I sagged back into my beanbag and stroked my chin. Darren being dead was a blessing for my bank account. I owed the bastard a lot of money but literally no one knew, other than him, me, and Jesse, and the latter would never tell. But I was more concerned about how she’d taken it. She wasn’t a fan of his—especially not near the end—but I guessed she was distraught as any other person would be.