Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
“Where are we going?” I asked, speeding up so I was right beside him.
The moment he realized I was on my way to the door as well, he let go. He always did when I matched his stride or went ahead.
“I was contacted tonight by some FBI agents from California.”
I nearly stumbled, but his hand was there, faster than I could fall, and kept me on my feet.
“I informed them that we would meet them at that pub we like near my place.”
“That you like,” I corrected him without thinking, my brain on autopilot. The establishment in question was sticky. The floors, the booths, the varnish on the bar, never all the way clean. Plus, it smelled like cigarettes, stale air, and beer. Not a winning combination.
“That I like,” he amended.
“FBI agents?”
“Yeah.”
“Is someone dead?”
“No. Out of protective custody.”
“Really?” That was not something I’d ever considered. My ex—and I could only assume that’s who we were talking about—had been, I was certain, on his way to jail all those years ago. I hadn’t imagined, in my wildest nightmares, him ever getting out.
“Really,” he stated.
I started shaking.
“Listen,” he murmured, spinning me around to face him, hands on my biceps. “I don’t know shit about whatever the fuck this is because you haven’t told me, but I’m guessing this is where the panic attacks come from. Yeah?”
“Some of them, yes.”
“We’ll get it sorted.”
I had the urge to run. Not even to go home, but to hit an ATM, buy a plane ticket to Las Vegas, and get lost in the sea of people there.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said flatly.
He’d read that on me clear as day. Just looking at me, he knew. It was crazy. It had always been nuts, he and I, from the moment we met.
“I need you, yeah?”
I took a breath because yes, he did. I made him stop and notice things like the stars in the sky on deep blue summer nights, or the sunrise on cold, crisp winter mornings, or how good all the plants looked from the vantage point of his desk. I made him appreciate the comfort of the furniture in our office, got him to savor coffee, not merely drink it for survival, and my crowning achievement was that I made him a better friend.
I prodded him to call people back, to show up when invited, and to ask the people he cared about to come over just to watch TV with him. He was stunned when old friends and new showed up for no other reason than him suggesting beer and pizza on a random Thursday night. He was more loved than he knew, but he also needed to be more accessible. I did that. He gave me a chance, and I reciprocated by reminding him that his time was the most precious gift he could give.
Janelle walked by with all her friends in tow and smiled at me as she did. I noted that she and the other girls, and one of the boys, all gave my boss longing looks as they passed. It was to be expected. When you were built like he was, and your bone structure made you resemble a manga character or a superhero, people stopped and stared.
Mr. Somerset caught us at the door.
“You run in, grab your assistant, and go, Colton?” he teased my boss, closing in on us with his hand outstretched for him to shake.
There was a slight curl of his lip before Colton shook the offered hand. He never gave Burgess or Mayhew the time of day, but Mr. Somerset, he liked. Or at least didn’t hate. It was a fine line. “We had an emergency come up, so we have to go.”
“Well, I’m glad you at least put in an appearance.” He chuckled. “What’s with the sunglasses? Are you stoned?”
My boss was an occasional drinker, but narcotics, THC, or anything stronger than ibuprofen was never allowed in his system. To prove it to the man, he lifted the aviators and pushed them back into the mane that fell just above his shoulders. The black eye was wildly noticeable.
“Jesus, Colt, what happened?”
“One of the guys we talked to in lockup yesterday, Saul Blackburn, was suffering through a meth withdrawal, so he tagged me before I even noticed he was taking a swing.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s drying out at the hospital,” I replied, looking for my coat. I had always liked the row of hooks Mr. Somerset had on the wall in his foyer, but at the moment, with so many there, my jacket was hidden. “We got him the last bed at county around one in the morning.”
Mr. Somerset shook his head. “And why are we interested in this man?”
“Because he’s the witness who can prove that our client, Demarcus Young, did not, in fact, stab anyone at a bodega out in Pilsen a month ago. We paid Mr. Blackburn’s bail, so he’s out of jail, and once his system is clean, we can take his statement before we put him into rehab.”