Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Logan sat back at his desk, arms crossed over his chest. “Jesus, you remind me of my brother.”
Which was probably why he and Hunter butted heads. “Yeah?”
“He married Kata the night he met her, did you know that? He took one look at her, and he knew.”
No shit? A few weeks ago, One-Mile wouldn’t have understood. Today, he got it. “They happy?”
“Fucking as in love as I’ve ever seen. I knew with my wife right away, too. But we met in high school, and things got fucked up. I lost her for a few years. When we met up again, she was engaged to another guy.”
Until now, Logan had never shared anything personal, but One-Mile wasn’t too thick to grasp that the man was delivering some message.
“How long did that last after you found her again?”
“Not long.” Logan tapped his thumb on his desk, clearly pondering his next words. “Especially after the asshole watched me go down on Tara…and I made sure he knew she enjoyed the hell out of it.”
One-Mile grinned. “Damn, you shit-stirrer.”
Logan shrugged. “We all gotta be good at something…”
“So…you get where I’m coming from with Brea?”
“That you don’t give a shit about her relationship with Cutter? Yeah, but think hard. Is it really worth starting a shit storm if she’s just a fuck? Or a way for you to provoke Cutter?”
“She’s not.” Even the intimation irritated One-Mile. “And I wouldn’t put the time or effort into scheming something to piss off the Boy Scout when a simple fuck you would do.”
“Fair enough.” Logan stood. “That’s not why I called you in here. I need the rest of your reports on the latest Mexico trip. We all hate paperwork, but we have to keep our documentation squeaky clean so Uncle Sam doesn’t shut us down.”
“It’s done. I’ll email the shit now.”
“Good. Then get your ass out of my office and send Cutter in so I can have a nice, long chat with him about being prompt and thorough with his.”
What was Edgington saying? “How long?”
“Probably long enough for you to go to Brea’s rescue.”
He’d never seen any of his bosses as potential bros. He worked for them. They gave orders, and he completed the dirtiest of the dirty missions on their behalf. End of story. But Logan was proving that he was all right. “Thanks, man.”
As he turned and reached for the door, his boss called after him, “You’re welcome. But if you make work ugly, I’ll make your life hell.”
That didn’t scare One-Mile. He twisted around long enough to salute Logan, then hauled ass out of the office and headed to Sunset.
Mid-August was still hotter than fuck, and he wished he had some idea what was wrong with Brea’s van, but he had a few hours to figure it out. Since he and machinery usually got along just fine, he hoped it wouldn’t be too tough.
When he arrived at the church, a fiftyish woman who identified herself as Mrs. Collins poked her head out…but didn’t shake his hand. No surprise. He probably looked big and violent to her sheltered suburban eyes. He didn’t give her his name, just said he’d come to fix the van for Brea. The woman nodded and disappeared inside.
About thirty minutes later, he figured out the vehicle was overheating and the likely culprit was a faulty water pump. He managed to run one down and get it installed way before the sun set. Then he knocked and let himself in the church’s back door.
“Yes?” Mrs. Collins eyed him and his tattoos like he was the devil and if she let him too close, his sin might rub off on her.
But she was probably someone Brea knew and respected, so One-Mile made nice. “The van is fixed. Do you have a piece of paper so I can leave Brea a note?”
He’d rather text her, but she’d never given him her number. Sure, he had it. Finding her digits hadn’t been hard. But he wanted her to choose to tell him.
“This way.”
Mrs. Collins led him down a blessedly air-conditioned hallway that ended in a small office with white walls bare of everything except a cross. In the middle of the room sat a painfully neat desk. A plaque squatted front and center that read Reverend Jasper P. Bell.
She retrieved a sheet of paper from the nearby printer and a pen from the top drawer. “There you go.”
Mrs. Collins hovered awkwardly, watching him like she worried he might steal something. He tried not to roll his eyes. The truth was, he’d saved pretty much every penny Uncle Sam had ever paid him. Between that, his lucrative post-Marine contracts, and the money his granddad had left him, he’d managed to sock away a couple million dollars. He had zero interest in swiping the preacher’s stapler.
“Thanks. How’s the reverend doing since his surgery?”