Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 97462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
You’re about to. Newt’s twangy country accent grated on Fox’s nerves faster than nails scraping down a chalkboard. He wanted to converse with this man as little as possible and get the hell out of the Rusty Spur before some of these guys’ situations rubbed off on him. Was being a pitiful piece of shit contagious? Fox didn’t want to find out.
“I can show you if you want,” Fox said, cocking his head towards the door.
“I also know you’re a cop. You mighta scared my uncle off with that badge, but you ain’t nothing to me. Unless you got a warrant!” Newt said loudly, drawing more attention than they already had. “I don’t give a damn about Robby running his fool mouth. He can snitch if he wants. I got a whole bar that says I was right here every night, all night.” Newt chuckled and threw back the last of his beer before wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Feel free to interview my alibis, Officer.”
Fox noticed the men by the pool table laying down their cues and heading in their direction. Bull gave Fox a quick glance, probably wondering if this was a part of his plan. It was. He pulled his cell phone from his coat pocket and turned the screen in Newt’s direction with the video already loaded and ready. Free had downloaded all of the live feed and still images that Steele had gotten of Newt Thompson after he’d left Bull’s ranch.
It took Newt a second to realize what Fox wanted him to do, but when he got a good look at the video, he leapt from his seat so fast he knocked his chair over and sent his beer glass crashing to the dirty floor. Newt appeared as if he was hyperventilating, while he roughly scrubbed his hand over his mouth. If Fox didn’t know the real signs, he’d think Newt was about to throw up.
“What the fuck? How’d you… what are—”
“Call your boys off, now,” Fox said, watching the pool guys closing in. “Tell them we’re just talking… unless you want me to turn my phone around and show—”
“No!” Newt yelled, then threw his hands up at his cronies. “It’s cool, Sedge, Mark, Ron… I got this.”
“You sure, man?” a lumberjack-looking fucker asked. He had a long, scraggly red beard and hands the size of bear paws. He wielded a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand, a damn decent weapon in any good bar fight.
“I’m sure, I’m sure,” Newt spat around his harsh breaths. He swooped his chair up from the floor, then squatted and began to sweep at the broken glass with his bare hands when the waitress approached with a broom. “I got it! I got it, Nancy. Um, thanks.”
She gestured at the broom, then to Newt before rolling her eyes and going back to tending her tables.
The head of their crew set his bottle of liquor on the bar, staying close, and his partners did the same. Whatever the big one did, the others seemed to follow. Fox noted that important information in case he needed it later. Fox set his phone down on the table with the screen facing upwards for Bull to see.
This time his cowboy had a hard time not reacting. “Oh shit.”
“You know who I am. And you know Bull.” Fox tapped his phone, then peeked at the raunchy video still playing. “And we know that you like to take it hard up the ass from the dishwasher that works here on the weekends.”
Newt closed his eyes as he turned an ashen shade of gray beneath his unkempt beard. “Please,” he mumbled so softly that Fox barely heard him sitting only two feet away. “Don’t.”
“From the grimace on your face, that guy must be packing some serious hardware.” Fox smirked, and Bull turned to hide his grin. “If you’re gonna be bold enough to go at it with nothing but spit and dick, you better be man enough to take it.”
Newt twisted his face into a disgusted but mostly embarrassed frown.
“Think those guys will still be your alibi—lie for you—if they knew this?” Fox cast his eyes in the direction of Newt’s crew. “From the looks on their ignorant faces, I’d say probably not.”
“What the hell do you want?” Newt gritted out.
“That’s the simple part.” Fox sat forward. “You turn yourself in for the vandalism and trespassing on the Walker Ranch, and you make a public apology for being the dick of the town. You agree to pay restitution for your damages and consent to a permanent restraining order that you’ll stay one thousand feet from his property. You do this and Bull won’t press charges… despite my advice, he doesn’t want your business to go under. Which I’m sure it will if you’re in jail for six months to a year.”