Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 122609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
The man’s expression changed to concern. His complexion deepened and his eyes sheened. Oh look, he’s a compassionate bastard. How heartwarming.
“Oh no… I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah… me too. Now could you kindly go in the back and take a look, maybe even ask somebody? A manager? If there isn’t any luck after that, I’ll accept it, but then at least I can say I tried.”
The guy hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
“Okay. It wouldn’t hurt to double check. I’ll be right back.”
“Cool.” James looked around. There was that twosome in the next line getting their affairs in order with Frankie but other than that, the place was fairly deserted. A few people were dropping off their cars, a couple of employees stood outside the building talking, but he and the straw-hatted couple were the only ones waiting. As he scanned the space, he made sure not to look directly into the camera he’d spotted mounted in the far-right corner and kept his face out of view. Coast was clear. Leaning forward, he nudged the computer monitor slightly in his direction, just enough to get the info he needed. He did a speed-read of the screen:
3/15 – Arnold Figaro
3/21 – Taylor Daniels
3/30 – John Gracey
4/12—Wilma Offspring
4/18 – Charlie McMichael
4/29 – Honey Brooks
There was no one after that name. She was the last renter. It also showed the car hadn’t yet been returned.
That’s her. I just know it is. That means she rented it about four days ago. ‘Honey’ sounds like a fucking alias. I’ve never heard of anyone named Honey, but it’s such a different kind of name, it just might be real.
He quickly turned the computer back around and stared aimlessly at a television mounted to the wall, featuring a restaurant commercial for some breakfast special. Darryl returned, shaking his head before he delivered the bad news.
“I’m sorry, man. No MP3.”
“It’s fine… it’s fine.” James sighed, threw up his hand and made way to leave. “Thanks for checkin’, though.”
“Yeah, of course. Take care.”
Offering a loose wave, James hightailed it back to his car. Once inside, he grabbed his iPad and typed in the name: Honey Brooks.
If she’s real, she should have a social media presence. Hell, I don’t, but that’s different. She should have something. I know there can’t be a billion women with that same name… should be easier to narrow down. His search was short and sweet…
“FUCK!” He pounded the steering wheel when he stumbled upon several photos of some photojournalist out of California who worked for a prominent newspaper. “A gotdamn journalist! A photojournalist at that! FUCK! SHITTY! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! GOT DAMN IT!” he yelled and cursed, then quickly forced himself to calm down. He rarely got wound up that way, but the pure shock of it all overwhelmed him.
He sat there, his chest heaving. “I hate nosy ass reporters. I detest those motherfuckers.” His memory flooded with an incident that had helped define his childhood—a horrible situation he’d rather soon forget. The press had been on his family’s ass, relentless. He hissed and closed his eyes when he reflected on the flashing police and ambulance lights, the news crew trucks, and the flash from the cameras as he and his sister were being marched out of his grandparents’ house, covered with grandma’s old coat that didn’t help much as protection went. He saw it all… and they saw him. They didn’t care that it had been the day a part of him died. His heart swelled with pure anger from the memories.
For days on end after that horrible event, every time his sister woke up screaming, he comforted her… Every time he looked out the window, he saw the press surrounding their house… Every time they tried to leave the house with Grandma, questions were hurled their way. No more riding their bikes in peace. No more picnics. Baseball games. Water gun fights. They’d become prisoners in their own home. Because of the fucking press. They were just children… just kids…
He started the engine and peeled out of the rental car parking lot. Turning the music full blast, he worked on a plan. As tempting as it was to contact Billy to help, he knew it was best he did this on his own. He didn’t want the guys getting worried, blabbing at the mouth, squealing under pressure. Never in his life had he had a news reporter on his property. He’d worked so hard to not rouse attention. To lay low. Now, all of that was in jeopardy.
I bet Bannon or someone in his camp called her ass and sicced her on me. How else would she know? That’s pretty crafty. He smiled, then laughed mirthlessly while rotating his gun around and around his finger… You can get more bees with honey, Honey, and I’m a whole fuckin’ angry warrior wasp coming your way. You should have minded your business and kept your ass in California. You’ll be regretting what you’ve done soon enough…