Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114819 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114819 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
“You gotta quit movin’. You’re gonna make him fuck up,” Dev pointed out, just to get under Kreed’s skin. Trace showed his appreciation by lifting the pen, swiping over the freshly inked skin and winked at Dev.
“You know I can fuckin’ see you two in the mirror,” Kreed shot back. Dev grinned broader, hoping the medical mask he wore hid the smile. Of course he hadn’t forgotten that Kreed held a handheld mirror in a maze of mirrors Kreed had brought to watch Trace work.
“You got some controllin’ bosses,” Dev quipped, his gaze looking over the designs already inked in Kreed’s back. He’d spent some time and money there. Good thing Dev wasn’t Trace; he’d probably mess that shit up on purpose for what a pain in the ass Kreed was being. “Shit aside, he’s doin’ great. Trace needs to quit that lame bodyguard job and take on this room full time. I’ll fill your calendar up.”
“Stop talking to him,” Kreed barked and lifted the mirror slightly as Trace went upward with the pen. “Or it won’t matter. If he fucks this up, he’s fired.”
Dev didn’t doubt the tough guy’s words in the least with the way he flexed all that confidence around the place. He bit back a reply as a Rage Against the Machine song played overhead. A personal favorite that had Dev immediately forgetting about the grumpy customer and nodding his head before the tune ever fully got started.
“Want me to crank it?” Millie called out.
Clearly, she knew him well. Without disturbing Trace, he stepped between the doorframe and hallway and hollered, “Yeah.”
When he came back inside, both sets of eyes were on him. Kreed lifted a single brow. That fucking brow made it clear neither one of them were happy that he appeared to leave the room unaccompanied. “I just took a fuckin’ step out. We’re good. Relax, boys.”
Millie cranked the volume, probably at about a seventy-two, drowning out whatever shitty reply Kreed had made. Dev pointed to his ear and shook his head, pretending not to hear whatever Trace said after that stern glare he gave.
The music silenced. Dev glanced over his shoulder as Millie stuck her head inside the door. “Abi’s school’s on the phone.”
The words didn’t make sense in his head. He narrowed his eyes and looked back at Trace who watched him, absently wiping at the ink. Since this was the first time he had ever gotten a call from his kids’ school, his heart picked up a beat. He patted around his jeans for his cell phone as if there were any other way they could have called him.
Millie extended his cell phone with a smirk.
He ignored her, tugging the mask off his face.
“I’m goin’ to my office to take the call. Keep goin’. You’re doin’ all right.” He grabbed his phone on the pivot and started that direction as he listened to Trace’s machine whir to life.
“It better be more than all right,” Kreed said.
“It’s Dev, Abi’s dad.”
“Mr. Fox?” The chick sounded older, at least the best he could tell, and the connection began to break up.
“Yup, this is him. Everything good with Abi?” he asked, ducking his head and shoving a finger into his ear. He stopped in mid-stride on his way to his workspace and pivoted again, heading toward the foyer.
“I think we have a bad connection,” she said. “Can you hear me, Mr. Fox?”
“Yep, I hear you fine.” He started for the front door, pushing through. The building was made of steel and concrete, many times his connections faltered, but this call was too important.
He stepped out into the warehouse, hoping to help tether the call, but Mack, Tank, and Diesel stood in a circle just beyond the raised doors in a deep discussion. Ace was plowing into the parking lot in his old beater cage. His old man was power walking from the back of the bike shop toward his brothers. Whatever was going on looked serious. So much so Dev went the other direction out the warehouse doors, taking long strides toward the side of the building to better hear. “Can you hear me now?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry for the hassle. I’m Mrs. Latham, Abi’s English teacher. I’m concerned about a paper she wrote in class today. She’s taken a rather dark turn…” she explained.
“Dark like how?” he asked, tucking his chin to his chest, sticking his fingertip inside his ear so he could hear everything the teacher had to say.
“Mr. Fox, are you aware she has a fascination with a Devilman? A motorcycle riding man with colorful language and a bad attitude? Today’s paper is a depiction of how she sees herself as Devilgirl, the spawn of this Devilman. Her self-image is tied closely to a darker version of Wednesday Addams. Are you familiar with her?” Mrs. Latham didn’t give him a second to answer as she continued to explain. “Abi also articulated some powerful language of her own in this report.”