Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
“You got a point there, kid.” He pauses to swipe an arm across his face, the blood spatter messing with his vision. “Still, the hours are good. Nine to five. After-dinner drinks at a swank bar. Enough money to order up your favorite snatch.” He taps the client’s forehead. “You like your job?”
The client throws a panicked look in my direction.
I lean back against the marble countertop that covers a big island full of drawers. None of the places Mike listed looked like this. I didn’t even know kitchen counters went in closets. “You should answer him. Beefer’s pissed that he had to get out of bed for this.”
He bitched for twenty blocks about how Mary’s wet pussy was going to be dry as a bone and did I know how much effort she required these days? Too much, he grunted. Too damn much. She’s not my fucking wife, he’d ranted. Side pieces are supposed to have open legs and closed mouths. If I wanted to jack off, I would’ve done it at home with the old lady.
So…he’s in a bad mood.
“I-I-I like my job,” he gasps.
I sympathize. It’s got to be hard to talk with Beefer choking you with your own tie.
“See, he likes his job.” Beefer jerks on the tie. The client wriggles, but we secured his hands behind his back, so he looks like a fish flopping on the beach. “And I like mine, just not after about ten. I wanted to fuck tonight, but I had to leave my warm bed to come here to teach you some manners. The next time you get a hankering to choke the shit out of a girl, you do it with someone you pick up at the bar. Not a girl from our stable or you’re going to get more than a pistol-whipping. You hear.”
That last bit doesn’t require a response, but the client nods anyway.
“Good. Glad we had this talk.” The enforcer yanks the john to his feet and then thrusts him toward the bedroom. I get busy cleaning up, bundling up the two black trash bags we laid down to catch most of the blood splatter. Then we haul our butts back to Marjory's, burn the plastic, and wash up. By the time I get home, it’s around four in the morning.
Bit’s sleeping like an angel, so I fall onto my own mattress and am dead the minute my head hits the pillow.
When I wake up, she’s still sleeping. I check the clock. It’s nearly noon. Even on the weekends, she’s up with the sun. She likes to watch the birds in the morning, she told me.
I debate going back to sleep or getting something to eat. My stomach grumbles, making the decision for me. I take a detour to piss and shower. When I get out, the peanut is still sleeping. I decide to make us sandwiches. No point in getting her up only to have her sit around until I can throw some grub together.
In the kitchen, I make plenty of noise, though, tossing plates onto the island. Slamming the fridge door shut. With the sandwiches made and the milk poured, I go over to roust her.
“It’s lunchtime, Bitsy.”
She doesn’t stir.
I raise my voice. “Come and eat a sandwich. It’s your favorite. Ham and cheese.”
She still is motionless.
I walk over and bend down next to her mattress. I give her shoulder a little shake. “Bitsy, it’s—” I break off. Her head lolls to the side. Her face is all flushed.
I press a hand against her cheek. She’s flaming hot.
I shake her again, a little harder this time. “Bitsy, Bitsy,” I say loudly. Maybe I’m shouting. I’m definitely feeling panic. I jump to my feet and run to the kitchen to pour a glass of cold water.
I hurry back, lift her head up and tip the glass against her lips, which I notice for the first time are dried and cracking in the corners. Her lips part, but the water dribbles out of the glass, down the sides of her cheeks. I call her name again and again, but she doesn’t respond. I dump the entire contents over her face.
This time her eyelids flutter. I lift her off the now soaked mattress and shift her over to mine.
“Bitsy, you okay?”
She blinks listlessly at me. Fuck me, of course she’s not okay.
I rub a shaky hand across my forehead. What the hell do I do? I’ve never been sick in my life. And I’ve never taken care of a sick person.
I grab my phone. I could call Beefer. He’s got kids. I can’t really take this girl to the hospital, can I? Any scratches or cuts I’ve ever had were taken care of by a doc Beefer called. We’re supposed to stay away from hospitals. They report things.