Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 120513 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 603(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120513 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 603(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Possum scanned the area he had indicated prior, then frowned. “Don’t see her anymore. Maybe she’s loadin’ her gun to shoot your ass. You probably did her wrong.”
“Or I did her right and she came back for seconds. But just in case, I’m gonna make sure I stand behind you the rest of the fuckin’ night.”
The prospect snorted and shook his head.
“Fuck that. You’re too fuckin’ skinny. Gonna use Tater instead. He’s a bigger target and a better shield.”
Possum glanced around again. “Can’t find her. Maybe she got tired of waitin’.”
“Maybe,” he muttered. “Ain’t gonna sweat it.”
“Wait… There she is.”
“Where?”
Possum tipped his head toward the other side of Crazy Pete’s. “Standin’ on the stage.”
Dodge’s head whipped around toward the low platform. It wasn’t huge since the bar didn’t have the square footage or the ceiling height to put in a real stage, but it worked. Having bands come in on Friday and Saturday nights, whether local or not, brought in some major scratch.
Sometimes they even had a band popular enough to charge a cover. They tried not to do that too often, since folks in Manning Grove and the surrounding area were cheap as fuck.
Mansfield college kids didn’t mind spending the green to see some bands but then, they were spending their mommy and daddy’s hard-earned cash.
Dodge hated when bands pulled in the I’m-not-a-kid-but-I’m-not-an-adult-either crowd. Shit tended to end up broken. He’d also spent too much time cleaning up puke after those nights. Or trying to find missing pool balls.
Or replacing the dart boards.
Or finding used wraps in the bathroom. One side of his lip curled up. From now on that would be a prospect’s job.
The chick stepping off the platform after circling it once and heading to the jukebox, looked to be about that age.
Trouble.
That was what she looked like.
Too young to know better, too old to use being a kid as an excuse.
He’d be surprised if she was even twenty-one.
“Why the fuck did Scar let a teenager in the door?” He turned to Possum. “Did you serve her? Is she old enough to be in here?”
“She ain’t drinkin’,” Possum said, “so I didn’t card her.”
Her back was to him and her head was tipped down as she studied what he assumed was the music selection in the jukebox.
“Pretty fuckin’ sure I didn’t bang her,” Dodge muttered, “‘cause that shit right there’s jail bait. No pussy’s worth doin’ time.”
She wore black skinny jeans, black clunky, thick-soled boots with the hem of her jeans and the loose laces tucked into the top, and a black see-through knit sweater that looked too big, hung loosely off one shoulder and halfway down her arm. Under that she wore what might be a tight, white wife-beater. Her what-might-be black hair, or at least a very dark brown like his, was long, straight and hung almost halfway down her back.
“Maybe she’s here to tell you that she’s your long-lost daughter.”
Dodge’s gaze spun back to him. “Ain’t that old, you asshole.”
“Dunno. You’re pretty fuckin’ old.”
“The fuck I am.”
“Got a few grays in your beard and hair.”
Dodge frowned and dragged his fingers down his beard. “Fuck you. Grayin’ early that’s all. Jesus Christ.”
“Startin’ to look like a grandpappy, that’s all.”
He tugged his grey knit cap lower over his head to hide those damn early grays. “How old do you fuckin’ think I am?”
“Fifty.”
Dodge shook his head. “You’re such an asshole.”
Tater lumbered down the back of the bar to grab a beer bottle from the cooler and popped off the top for a customer.
“Hey, Tater, how old you think grandpa here is?” Possum asked the other prospect.
Tater froze like a deer stunned by high beams, stared at Dodge and then shrugged. “Dunno… uh… Fifty?”
“What the fuck,” Dodge grumbled. “Ain’t fifty. I’m not even forty. Hell, I just turned thirty-five.” Yeah, like six months ago, but those fuckers didn’t need to know that.
“Damn, that’s old,” Possum whispered, his eyes wide. A second later, he broke out in laughter. “Just fuckin’ with you, old man.”
“The only Fury brother you can call ‘old man’ is Dutch. He’s the only one in the geriatric category.”
Except for his sex life. The Original was impressive when it came to banging a slew of women. It didn’t matter age, race, ethnicity, or anything. Dutch loved it all and somehow snagged it all.
It had all of them scratching their damn heads.
Tater tossed the bottle cap at the piled-high garbage can. Of course, it bounced out and landed on the floor by Dodge’s boot. “He said he’d shoot us if we call him that.”
“Okay, then make sure you call him that next time you see him. We could use some new prospects. Ones who take out the fuckin’ trash and don’t miss when they’re tossing shit into the garbage. Make sure you pick that up, Tater Twat. You don’t and I’ll make you get down on the goddamn floor and pick it up with your teeth.”