Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Not by her. Not by anyone.
Fucking, hellion.
Fucking sweet tits, fat lips, curvy hips, high-rounded ass, and fakest fucking smile I’ve ever seen.
I’ve got to make a run into town for supplies, and I have to run an errand and check up on something too important to risk using the phone.
I sure as shit am not taking Frankie with me, but I also don’t trust that she won’t gnaw her hand off to free herself from the cuffs while I’m gone.
I go as far as to reach for my phone. This time it’s Morgan’s number I begin to dial.
Shit.
Without a shit-ton of other options, and not being too far from Logan’s Beach, I clear the screen and dial a different number.
The greeting is exactly what I expect considering who it is I’m calling.
“Yo yo yo! County morgue. You grill ‘em, we chill ‘em. You’ve reached Preppy. How may I service you today?”
Even though I roll my eyes it’s good to hear a familiar voice. “Prep, it’s Smoke.”
“Smokey! What the fuck, dude? I’ve been searching for you ever since you saved my ass in that hospital. Where the fuck you been? I thought you mighta got sucked into that mega sinkhole that swallowed up half of Highway 28.”
“Still above ground. For now, anyways.”
“You know, I’ve missed these really detailed conversations of ours,” Preppy says with an exaggerated sigh.
“We can sing by the campfire and braid each other’s hair another time. Right now, I need a favor. I’m in the middle of a job. Need a babysitter for some cargo I’m toting.”
“How big is this cargo?” he asks, jumping into business mode.
I look back to the house. “In weight or attitude?”
“Ah, it’s like that.”
“Weight wise she can’t be more than a buck twenty, tops. And let’s just say she wouldn’t make it through a truck stop weigh in with the size of her fucking attitude.”
“Noted. When do you need someone?”
“ASAP, brother.”
“Alright man. You got it. I’d come out myself except Taylor and Miley have been up nights and I’m on duty so Dre can get some sleep.” I hear a baby cooing in the background followed by another baby crying. There’s a crash. “Bo, what did I tell you about the kitchen knives!” Preppy shouts away from the phone.
“Who can you spare?” I ask. There’s a shuffling on the phone. Another crash in the background. “Bo, if you’re making another fucking pipe bomb your mom is going to be really, really fucking mad. Like no TV for a week mad.”
“Sowwy,” I hear a little sad voice sing.
“It’s okay. Go play in the backyard, and I’ll bring your sisters out in a minute.” Preppy comes back to the phone. “Kids, you can’t live without them and you can’t leave them alone with household items they can create explosives from.”
“Is that what the saying is?”
“How the shit would I know,” Preppy says. “Text me the location, Smoke, and I’ll have someone out there tomorrow. I might have to dip into Bear’s bitches, but someone will be there for you, bro. It’ll be someone you can trust. I swear to that on a stack of motherfucking pancakes.”
“Appreciate it, Prep.”
“You know, I owe you more than sending someone out to help babysit even if you may or may not have allegedly abducted this someone. I owe you everything, man. You saved my goddamned life.”
I shake my head. “I was just in the right place at the right time,” I say.
“Yeah, whatever lets you sleep at night,” Preppy says, “Shit, I gotta go.” The phone sounds like it’s tossed down, but the line doesn’t go dead. “Bo, do not run that lawn mower over your…” his voice trails off.
I hang up, tap out the location of the prison and send it over to Preppy. I dig into my pocket and pull out my smokes. I light one and take a long slow drag.
I may not get close to people, not anymore and never fucking again, but you can’t make it in this world of ours, this life we chose, if you don’t trust someone every now and again.
And just now, I’ve chosen to trust someone who named his daughters after fucking pop stars and whose son is the youngest on record to be on the FBI watch list.
There ain’t many people out there who have my respect. Respect needs to be earned. Preppy’s got mine. The man might have a case of verbal diarrhea there ain’t no cure for, but he’s been through hell and back. He’s been tortured and brutalized the likes of which most folks can’t begin to imagine. Most men, the strongest of men, in both body and spirit, would’ve caved after that.
Not Preppy.
Not Samuel Motherfucking Clearwater.
I take another drag of my smoke.
Anytime I’ve ever worked with Preppy, he could get me to laugh about the stupidest shit, but right now, I feel like I haven’t really laughed in fucking years.