Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114819 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114819 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
One out of three weren’t the best odds to the future of the building if they didn’t wrap this operation up quickly.
Honestly, the mess hadn’t bothered Cash near as much as how well the handsome Trace with an easy grin fit inside Dev’s world. It took a couple more hours to admit he was jealous. It didn’t help that Dev acted as if he’d met his new best friend.
Dev ate up Trace’s awe-filled admiration. His mister had even made a public proclamation at the top of the staircase, declaring everyone else in the house as ingrates who should learn from Trace how best to deal with the infamous Devilman.
It came with a hearty laugh afterward, signaling Dev meant it as a joke, but a sour taste lingered in Cash’s mouth. And that was only the beginning. It was ridiculous how well the two men got along.
He had begrudgingly gone to his bedroom to dissect the case notes. He pouted but no one seemed to notice.
Joe used their one-on-one time to talk endlessly about the internal Dallas DEA gossip circulating around the water cooler. Shanna and her handler, Emma, who had also been her girlfriend for about the last six months—the best their coworkers could tell—were now officially on the outs. The news came as a surprise. Shanna never showed any outward sadness or emotion for the breakup.
Maybe he got it wrong. He retained very little of what chatty Joe said. He’d merely responded with a grunt here or nod there. He gave just enough to keep Joe doing the heavy lifting in their conversation, hopefully not feeling ignored. All the while, he mentally fixated on Dev being inside his apartment with Trace, the door closed, not a peep from either of them for hours.
The idea of putting Trace in front of a firing squad for disrupting the balance of the house was probably overkill, just like his jealousy.
Just like this cloth that had brought him to his knees…or, actually, his ass.
He clenched his jaw as he used the washing machine to pull himself up.
Rehashing the frustrations of last night was dumb.
His damn knee hurt. Once on his feet, he took a minute and smoothed his clothing then opened the door to the main part of the building. The light filtering inside illuminated the trail of mess.
“Trace’s every bit the pig Dev is,” Joe called, clearer now that the door was open. “You’ve gotta remember you have a flashlight on your cell phone. No use banging around in the dark.”
His anger elevated quickly, remembering Joe had the ability to watch just about everything in the building. Cash grabbed the cleaning cloth off the floor, fisting the silky material in one hand as he walked the aisle separating the two sides of the house, picking up Trace’s belongings as he went.
Once he cleared the hall and foyer, he headed for Trace’s apartment. He also gathered one boot—no idea where the other was—a stray dirty sock, a hairbrush, and a T-shirt from in front of Trace’s door.
T-shirt selection had been a monumental decision this morning, requiring Dev’s involvement to help Trace decide which one to wear. Trace had stood there, shirtless, his jeans riding low on his hips. Of course he was built like a pro-athlete. Dev seemed to understand the shirt dilemma far better than Cash did and made the decision for Trace, choosing the vintage ZZ Top shirt. Dev explained something about the Texas band needing reverence. The one now in Cash’s hand—Ozzie—had been a hard no-go.
Since Trace’s front door was wide open, Cash didn’t see it as an invasion of privacy to drop Trace’s shit right inside the entry.
More alarming than the accumulation outside the apartment was the mess already taking shape inside. A half-eaten slice of pizza sat on the coffee table, the box left wide open on top of the stove. Cans of beer, most likely Dev’s, were in various spots. Soda cans right beside them. A vintage record player was placed on the end table, all the vinyl’s spread across the floor. Trace’s clothes were everywhere else. Guns, ammunition, and electronics also cluttered the small apartment. Trace was indeed Dev’s mini-me.
From this angle, he could see the bed was in chaos. A towel wadded and discarded on the floor. What was with these men? His inner neat freak railed in horror at the mess.
All he could do was step out of the apartment and shut the door tightly behind him.
Hopefully, Dev would clue Trace in on his tidiness requirements. Or not. Cash was already shaping into the asshole of the group. Maybe if that trend continued, he would explain the prerequisite himself.
With a renewed sense of determination, Cash trudged up the staircase, looking at Joe who stood at the second-floor railing. “Buckle up. We’re starting from the beginning. This time we need to involve this Aaron Stuart guy you keep yammering about. Maybe run ideas past Mitch Knox. He seems like an out-of-the-box thinker. I want timestamps on all the information we’ve requested from all the different departments. I’m tired of waiting. Also, we need to pull data on who originated each piece of intelligence. I want it verified with a time stamp. The answers are in there.”