Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
People had been talking about me for more than a decade, so I was used to it. The longer I went without a woman in my life, the more the gossip mill churned. I’d heard it all. Some people said I was waiting on a mail-order bride to arrive. Others said I was too stubborn and set in my ways for anyone to put up with me. Most people agreed that I’d never be able to move on from my broken heart.
I had moved on, just not with another woman. I’d moved on to a solo existence, working as late as I pleased, spending my weekends hunting and fishing and not answering to anyone. The TV dinners sucked, but other than that, I liked my life.
Hours passed, every database search leading me to a dead end, as usual. It was long past sunset when I looked at my cell phone screen and saw a text from Coulter.
Coulter: Meet up at The Hideout at 6:30?
It was 6:10 now, and I was hungry and sick of sitting in my office chair. I texted him back.
Grady: Yeah.
Coulter: See you there.
I powered down my computer and locked up my office, looking at the freshly painted windows on my walk through the lobby. It looked like there was a Twelve Days of Christmas theme this year, and City Hall had gotten nine ladies dancing. Most of the ladies looked like aliens or clowns, and I shook my head and laughed at the disastrous display. Some years art students from a college an hour or so away led the window painting, and some years the townspeople were on their own. No one with any sort of artistic talent had been part of this design.
Coulter was already bellied up to the bar when I walked into The Hideout.
“What’s up, Chief?” he said.
“Not much. Did you finish all the reports before you left?”
“Yep, they’re in your inbox.”
“Thanks.” I nodded at the bartender, Willie, as he sat a frosty mug of beer in front of me, then looked at Coulter. “You ordered that for me?”
He shrugged. “Someone’s got to take care of you, and I’m the closest you’ll ever get to a girlfriend.”
“Shit.” I laughed and took a sip of the dark stout. “You’re one ugly fucking girlfriend. I hope you can at least cook.”
“You know my cast-iron skillet meals are killer.”
“Everything tastes killer when you’ve been hunting in the cold for ten hours.”
He scoffed, looking offended. “Remember you said that when I bring peanut butter and jelly on our next trip.”
“Okay, precious. Your skillet meals are the best.”
He leaned over and spoke in a low tone. “Guess what I did this afternoon?”
“You took a nap.”
“You’re right about the bed part.” His eyes twinkled mischievously.
I groaned. “You slept with the hairstylist again.”
“Damn right I did. She’s been texting and asking me to slip her the old nightstick, and she was at home alone, so…” He shrugged.
Coulter had been having an on-again, off-again relationship with a local hairstylist for a few months now. She never wanted to go on dates with him; all she wanted was an occasional hookup. I thought he should end things, but he wouldn’t.
“Are you looking for congratulations?” I asked irritably.
“No, just telling you.”
“Just be careful,” I said for at least the dozenth time.
“Don’t worry about me; I’m a grown-ass adult. I know what I’m doing.”
What he was doing was setting himself up to get hurt. Coulter was thirty-seven years old, and he wanted a life partner. Unfortunately for him, he was drawn to women who treated him like shit.
When Willie delivered both of us a second beer as we waited on our food, Coulter slid off of his barstool.
“Let’s go to the toast,” he said.
“Nope.”
“Come on,” he urged.
“I’m good right here.”
It was a Svensday tradition for everyone in the downtown area to meet up at the Sven statue at 7:00 p.m. for a toast, always with mugs of beer. I’d done it many times in my twenties, but now, at age thirty-four, I no longer saw the point. It was a good time for the college-aged kids and old-timers, nothing more.
“Well, I’m going,” Coulter said, still not moving.
“Have fun.” I waved at him, my eyes on my phone screen. “And if you see Danny Price on his dad’s snowmobile, tell him I’ll be there any minute.”
Price had pushed me too far, driving the snowmobile all over town. If he’d been going to work, I would’ve let it slide, but he was going to bars on it, proving he’d learned nothing. Some people needed to see the inside of a jail cell to change their ways.
“You got it, boss,” Coulter said. “Don’t eat any of my fries if my food gets here while I’m gone.”
“I make no promises.”
He left the bar and I stayed focused on my phone, looking over both shoulders to make sure no one could see me as I typed “Avon Douglas” into the search bar on Facebook.