Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Trust me.
I certainly feel like I’m being assessed by a cyclops.
“How long?” he asks coldly.
“Huh?”
“How long does it take them for a job like this? Do they just eat up everything in a couple hours, or what?”
Holy crap.
Now his ignorance scares me. Each goat would need five stomachs to clear a job this size in a matter of hours.
This guy doesn’t know a flipping thing about the job, the tribe, or me. And somehow, I doubt he even works here.
Worse, I’m not the only one getting freaked out.
Owl is, too.
His lips peel back a little more every time the man speaks.
I lay a hand on the dog’s back. It’s okay, Bud. Let’s not escalate this.
Since he’s been so amazing at reading minds, I hope it continues now.
“That’s all spelled out in the contract, including our rough estimated time,” I say politely, putting on my best disarming smile. “If you’d like, I think I have a spare copy rattling around in the glovebox. I’ll just go grab it for you and—”
“No. No copy.” He nods sternly and glances around, twisting his lips to the side. “So it’s just you and the dog out here then? Got any other help? Friends, family...boyfriend?”
“It’s a family business. My, uh...my boyfriend isn’t involved. He’s in another line of work,” I lie, suddenly feeling the need to hide behind a fake boyfriend.
What if I’m what he’s after?
He nods again like he’s working on a long delay, slowly processing my words.
Jesus.
Okay.
I’m officially done letting this weirdo drag this out.
With the fakest smile ever, I motion briskly at his truck. “Unfortunately, I need to ask you to move. I have other deliveries to make today.”
Another lie, but I really don’t like this guy.
He’s reminding me more of that Marvin scumbag by the minute. Except, I think I’d rather have Heckles with his ugly wifebeater look than Polyphemus here, staring down at me like prey with his cold, dead eyes.
I get a good look at the truck, at least.
A Chevy, rather than a Dodge. I can’t quite see the license plate, but I know one thing.
I’m calling Quinn the instant I’m out of here. Without hesitation.
This situation definitely falls under things more important than awkward make-out drama.
“Sir, if you could just...”
“Just being friendly,” he says in a tone that’s anything but. “No reason to get all snotty, ma’am. I’ll move.”
“Not being snotty. It’s just a busy day, y’know?” I give Owl a pat on the head as I take a step back, and then another, steadily moving toward the truck.
The dog steps back, too, his eyes locked fiercely on the giant the entire time.
C’mon, Tory, he’s not a bear. You can turn your back.
I hope. Knowing Owl will protect me, I decide to end this ridiculous staring contest and turn, quickly walking to the truck and flinging open the driver’s door.
His eyes are on me the whole time, staring as if he’s reconsidering my request to move the truck that’s boxing me in.
Then Owl hits his limit, snarling and baring his huge canine teeth.
“Oh, crap. Let’s go. Don’t worry about him,” I whisper to the mastiff, trying to push his huge furry bulk into the truck and having no success.
The mastiff intends to stand his ground, and I can’t blame him.
Without a word, the guy walks to his truck.
Good enough. Barely.
Owl turns and jumps up in the driver’s seat, finally, stumbling over to the passenger side, keeping one eye glued to the stranger the entire time.
I keep my eyes on him too while scuttling in and starting the truck.
Polyphemus cuts a sharp turn out of the Neuman farm as I pull onto the road behind him, going the opposite direction. But I notice when he turns around instantly, coming up behind me, that cherry-bomb of a truck filling my mirrors.
“Crud,” I whisper.
For a split second, I question if I should call Quinn, but only for the amount of time it takes to grab my phone, punch his contact, and press it to my hot little ear.
The call goes straight to voicemail. I glance in the side mirror and the bright-red Chevy is still trailing me.
No mistaking it, even if he’s keeping his distance.
“H-hey, Quinn!” I stammer. “It’s Tory. You know that. Just...give me a call ASAP. Thanks.”
The next ten seconds feel like an eternity as I push the gas, watching the maniac behind us speeding up, hovering several car lengths back, but matching our pace.
Then my phone rings. I fumble to hit the answer icon.
“Quinn!”
“Sorry, I was on the other line. What’s up?”
“It’s probably nothing, but...”
“But what?” His voice is alert, as if he just instinctively senses my nerves.
“There’s some dude in a red Chevy following me.”
“Where are you?”
The concern in his tone makes me feel like I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. But every time I glance back, the truck is still there, eerily steady, its driver’s eyes hidden under the brim of his hat.