Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
“Oh, Christ Almighty, it has a brother,” Traveler grumbled as I walked in, her dark eyes doing a quick once-over.
“If it makes it any better, he said the coffee was great,” I told her, lying through my teeth.
“Oh, and he’s also a bullshitter. Family trait then,” she said, brows raising, daring me to insist he actually had said it.
“Alright, fine, he told me not to ask why some cookie was named Queen Mother,” I admitted.
To that, her smirk went a little wicked as she waved to the display cabinet toward a cookie that had a, well, strange shape.
“Because it is shaped like a pussy,” she declared. “Queen Mother means pussy. And it’s got a nice glaze on it that—“
“Yeah, I get the picture,” I said, chuckling.
“Your brother is a dick.”
“That he is,” I agreed.
“You seem mildly less dickish. And you don’t seem dumb enough to be part of Colin’s crew. So… welcome. What can I get you?”
“Coffee. Black.”
“Like my soul,” she said in a way that said she uttered it often, almost out of habit. “Do you have a preference on what type of roast?”
“No. Surprise me.”
“So what are you guys doing around here? You don’t strike me as locals. Are they trying to gentrify the neighborhood? Because that won’t be easy with Colin’s shitheads all around.”
“I’ve heard a lot about this Colin guy since I’ve been here. I’m actually staying at The Ironwood. But I heard good things about the deli, so I tried that. Then August got coffee without getting me any, so here I am.”
“Colin is a drug lord. And a general menace to society. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I have no issues with either things. But my dealer is this single mom of four who sells pot and mushrooms to keep the lights on. And my types of menaces to society are the kinds that are dismantling a system that doesn’t work for all of us, not maiming and killing people for no good reason.”
“Why’d you open a shop here if he’s that bad?”
“Rent prices are a dream here. And I have a feeling that this area will gentrify eventually. Being here first means I will get all the business.”
“You’re not afraid of the shithead?” I asked as she held up two cups at me—a paper one and a ceramic one. “For here,” I said.
“He’s scared of my father. Which is funny. Because he should be scared of me. I don’t get intimidated easily. Even if,” she said, leaning over the counter toward me as she passed me my coffee, “you are giving off mafia vibes and asking a lot of questions,” she said, making my brow raise.
It wasn’t uncommon for someone in Navesink Bank or the surrounding areas to come across one of us and assume mafia, but it was strange to be out of town and have someone guess it right immediately.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone. In fact, I’m secretly hoping you come in here and wipe out the competition. At least your kind of criminal has a code, right?” she asked, ringing me up.
“The mafia doesn’t exist,” I told her.
“Right. And I’m a lily white virgin,” she scoffed. “Anyway, if you ever want information on Colin’s crew, you can drop in here. So long as you buy shit too.”
“Got it,” I agreed, moving toward the only open table.
It was maybe five minutes later that Cammie came in, completely ignoring me as she moved to place her order, getting a ceramic mug, then turning, making a show of looking for an open table, prompting me to wave at mine, silently inviting her to join.
And so things started to get into motion.
CHAPTER NINE
Cammie
I hated the job.
I mean, Rizzo was super nice to customers, but she was a raging lunatic to her employees, making me understand why she had such a hard time getting anyone to stay.
Maybe I should have been feeling regret about practically begging Colin to let me have the job. But the fact of the matter was, I was so happy to be out of the house that I didn’t even care that Rizzo had yelled at me ten times the first hour I started working.
I, thankfully, was not someone who cried when they got yelled at. Likely because my father had been a big yeller my whole childhood, and he would only yell worse if you cried, so I learned to keep it to myself until I was alone.
A lucky “skill” to have around Rizzo.
The job itself was pretty simple. I had a cheat sheet for what was in each of the sandwiches—including exactly how many slices of meat and cheese because Rizzo didn’t want to waste a single penny—and the register was easy enough to master, thanks to me using them for years as a teen when I’d worked at a store.