Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
“I know because you can’t seem to read anything over two paragraphs long if the text isn’t accompanied by pictures.”
All this while Tom and Lisa’s eyes ping-ponged between us.
The last jab seemed to do the trick, because Brat looked thoroughly wounded. She didn’t like to be told she was stupid. I made a mental note not to do it anymore. No part of me wanted to see her banged up emotionally. I just wanted to survive this damn assignment.
“Uncle Ran-wrom said a potty word!” One of the twins—the smaller one—raised his head from his smoothie, his face smeared with pink.
“Very true. Uncle Ransom will now have to give each of you one dollar as an apology,” Tom said primly, like he didn’t grow up like me, in the guts of Chicago’s whorehouses and drug dens.
Huffing, I took out my wallet and slapped a fifty-dollar bill in front of each twin. “Here,” I groaned. “Since I know I’m about to rack up a bill here.”
Finally, Tom and I left in his Lamborghini. I wasn’t feeling completely confident in Brat’s ability not to screw it up while I was gone, but Lisa was levelheaded, and I had every reason to believe she’d call us if Brat did something stupid, like flash the neighbors or invite domestic terrorists for a pool party.
“Where are we headed?” I asked, checking my Ruger LC9 to make sure it was fully loaded. I had zero trust in people. But I did trust my weapon to always function when I needed it. It was a good rule of thumb, and one I’d adopted the hard way.
“Huntington Beach.”
“I’m going to need more than that.”
By my calculations, Tom was supposed to start his work with Mayor Ferns on Monday. It was unlike him to make a trip to the West Coast so close to an assignment. We both had that poor boy complex, where we were eager to prove we were worth our salt.
“Ian’s not been answering me.”
“Ian Holmes?” I asked, removing invisible lint from my dress pants. Holmes was a fellow counterintelligence agent from our previous lives. He was much older than us and worked as a chief operating officer by the time we’d left. Which basically meant he ran the show and was our boss the last two years of our employment. Tom kept in touch with him.
“Yeah. Haven’t heard from him in a week.”
“So? Are you two having an affair?” My eyebrows shot up. “Why would you be talking to this random ass person more than you talk to your mom?”
“I don’t have a mom, and you damn well know that,” Tom muttered. “Ian and I talk pretty regularly. He’s got a lot of insight. Has been in this business for decades. Speaking of affairs…” Tom scrubbed the stubble on the front of his throat, grinning. “Nice banter you had there with Miss Thorne.”
“Don’t go there,” I warned. The image of her smoothing my dress shirt last night with that lopsided, siren smirk assaulted my memory every half hour or so.
“I’m not suggesting you’re having an affair with her,” Tom explained. “But…if she wasn’t business, would you?”
“Absolutely not.”
Tom had no idea about my sexual life, how depraved it was. But even if he had, he seemed to think even the biggest fuck-up could be reformed. He said he was living proof of that. He was wrong. I was ten times more damaged.
“She’s not your type,” Tom mused, unimpressed by the death glare I was sending him.
“Naturally.” I rolled my window down. “My favorite type is without a pulse.”
“Bet that sounded more warped than you intended it to.” Tom tapped the steering wheel, flashing a shit-eating smile at nobody at all as we passed by palm trees and half-naked people. “You usually go for women you wouldn’t ever bring home for a family dinner or a double date with Lisa and me. Which begs the question, do you still use call girls?”
“Jesus. No,” I murmured, scowling at the view. That was so far back in our past. And not something I’d done by choice. I had no way of avoiding it. Avoiding them. Why would he bring it up now? “In case you haven’t noticed, the girl’s an airhead.”
“Nah.” Tom shrugged, and I could see in my periphery that his smile was widening. “She just has a big attitude, and it’s all L.A. But once you strip that down…well, I think there is someone interesting behind the persona. She just called me out on my ride…pretty impressive.”
“You mean rude.” I flicked my Aviators on. “Good thing I’m the one vetting personnel in our company. You are always off when it comes to reading people.”
The rest of the drive, Tom caught me up to speed about Ian Holmes. Apparently, Ian and he had been real close the past couple years, ever since Ian had been diagnosed with prostate cancer.