Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
“Of course it does.”
“Then, no.” She turned back to the house.
“What? Too chicken shit to go sell a gun?” That got her. All I had to do was question her a little.
She gave the gun a flippant glance. “I want half.”
It was either give her half or chuck it in the woods and get nothing. Thumbing over my nose, I started to the house. “Fine.”
“And you’re coming with me.”
I slipped a hand around her waist. “Of course.”
We rounded the house and climbed onto my bike. “You’re tainting trailer trash, Zepp,” she teased before the engine roared to life. “And that’s quite a feat.”
Oh, I was only getting started...
Fifteen minutes later, we pulled past the prostitutes by the phone booth and into Tony’s Pawn Shop’s parking lot. The pink fluorescent light blinked on and off. Monroe hopped down from the bike. The second she removed her helmet, she shot a sketchy gaze around the parking lot, lingering on a group of hookers.
“You know all the best places to take a girl, Zepp,” she said.
“Try to hold off on fucking me until I get you home. Okay?” I tucked the gun into the back of her jeans. Something about the way it peeked out made my dick hard. All Tomb Raider looking and shit… “I’m not gonna lie. That’s fucking hot.”
She rolled her eyes. “Wait.” A frown settled on her face like some terrible realization had just overcome her. “Why do I have to sell this? Why can’t you?”
“Tony’s made a deal with us. We can each come in once a month. No questions asked. And our allotment is already up.”
“Tell me the truth, am I gonna get arrested for this?”
Like I would let her go to jail. “Tell me that’s not a serious question?”
She shifted closer, glancing over her shoulder. “It might have killed people!” she whispered.
“Tony doesn’t give a shit.” I pointed toward the barred doors. “And he writes down fake names.”
On a sigh, she turned and crossed the lot.
A couple of minutes later, she stomped out. “He won’t take it.” She shoved the Glock against my stomach. “Says he needs paperwork.”
“What the...” I tucked it into my jeans.
Tony always took anything we brought in. Jewelry, knives, guns—without the paperwork. Then again, he knew us. He didn’t know Monroe.
“Fine,” I said.
We drove back to the house. When she climbed off the bike, I took the helmet from her, putting it on.
Monroe glared at me with suspicion. “Where are you going?”
“To sell the gun.” And then I pulled away.
I drove over to the Northside—a place I wouldn’t dare take Monroe. Dayton was bad, but this place… The things I would do for a few hundred bucks. I was glad to get the hell out of there, speeding around corners and running red lights. As soon as I got back to my side of town, I pulled into the Jet Pepp to buy a pack of smokes and condoms. Just in case. And when I came back out to the pumps, some cracked out man was walking off with my bike.
“What the hell, man?” I sprinted over. The second I went to deck him, something tore across my skin. Fire radiated from my arm; then, I noticed the blade in the man’s hand. “Stupid crackhead!” I punched him in the face, knocking him back before I grabbed my bike. I cranked the engine and pulled off, not noticing the blood on my arm until I reached a red light.
By the time I got back to my house, blood drenched my sleeve.
Bellamy glanced away from the game when the door slammed shut behind me. His gaze landed on my arm. “What the hell, man?”
Monroe tossed her controller onto the sofa.
Wolf paused the game, plucking the joint from his lips as he turned around. “Are you bleeding?”
“No shit, dumbass,” I said, going to the kitchen to grab a beer, popping it open and chugging it with the door still open.
I took another beer and shut the fridge.
“What happened?” Monroe leaned against the doorway, arms folded over her chest.
“Got cut by some hobo.”
She pushed away from the doorframe and stopped in front of me, grabbing my wrist and inspecting the cut. “That needs stitches.”
“I’m not going to pay three hundred bucks to get someone to sew me up at the hospital.”
“I know.” She shoved me toward one of the kitchen chairs. “Sit down.”
“I’m not letting you sew me up, either.” I cocked a brow, but she ignored me, moving to the cabinets to rummage through them.
She filled a pot with water, then placed it on the stove before dumping half a container of salt into it.
“It didn’t nick anything important, or I’d have bled out...”
She came back and gripped my arm, poking around the slice. “I know. But I’m guessing it wasn’t a squeaky-clean blade. You can’t close it unless it’s clean, Zepp.”