Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Bear’s habit has been growing, as is the case with most drug users. Heather P didn’t know if Andy’s mom had bought drugs for herself or the boyfriend. It didn’t matter. A debt is a debt.
Andy doesn’t have any other family, nor does she have any boyfriend of her own for help. I pressed Heather P on the last detail, but the informant stood firm. No boyfriend in the picture.
So I have all the info on Andy, and if I just wait, her possible junkie mom will require a visit from Bam and me in a couple of weeks. But I can’t wait. I find myself standing in the middle of a run-down diner watching Andy.
“Rider!”
The shout has me turning around. I spot two members of the Pipefitters sitting at a table cleared of all the dishes but two coffee cups. The blue inked interlocking pipes stand out among the other tattoos on their arms. One of them gestures for me to come closer. I take a quick inventory of the rest of the occupants.
The diner is set up like most diners with booths snugged up against the wall of windows and two long counters bisected by an opening for the wait staff. The cash register is on the left counter, and a glass pie case sits on the corner of the right. There are only a couple of pieces left—lemon, which I hate, and blueberry.
There’s a middle-aged man dining solo in the corner staring out the window. He has a glass of water and an unfolded napkin resting by his hand. He just ordered and hasn’t gotten his food yet. At a second booth, two tables away, a young-ish couple are sharing a meal. They both got burgers, and a large order of fries rests between them. At the counter to the left of the register, a woman of indeterminate age is typing a message into her phone. Her fork is buried on its side in a half-eaten slice of apple pie.
I reach back and scratch the back of my head. The Riders and Pipefitters don’t have any special beef between them, but there’s friction because everyone wants more territory. They don’t have the right to summon me, but one tiny spark can set off an entire keg of gunpowder. I amble over to the table, stopping out of arm’s reach of the men.
“‘Sup.” I give a chin nod.
“This ain’t Rider territory, kid.” It’s not theirs either. The speaker is a clean-shaven bald guy who looks to be around sixty, but it’s hard to tell. People in my line of work age fast from laboring in the sun during the day and drinking and smoking at night. The man’s face is lined, and his hands are speckled with age spots, but he could be forty for all I know. You can’t underestimate the old ones, though. They’re wily and tough or they wouldn’t have the luxury of growing old.
“I’m not doing business. I came to have a piece of pie. Friend told me it was good here.” The moment the word “pie” comes out of my mouth, I realize I made a mistake.
The guy across from the speaker bursts out laughing. “Okay, kid. Go on then. Get your pie.”
My hands curl into fists, but before I can strike the match, a small hand grips my biceps.
“Hey, babe, got your slice ready.”
I look down at the hand, small and fine with short-tipped nails painted with yellow and white flowers, and then up to the face of Andy Nunn, my savior. “Thanks. Hope you put some ice cream on it.”
“Always. I know what you like.”
The two men guffaw, which makes me stiffen. Andy digs her flat-tipped nails into my arm and tugs me away. I let her because to start a war against the Pipefitters when it isn’t necessary would be idiotic, and while my position in the org is muscle, it doesn’t mean I’m dumb. At least not most of the time and not tonight.
“Thanks,” I say as I take a seat next to the pie case. There really is a slice of blueberry pie with a generous scoop of vanilla resting to the side. Some of the frozen treat is already melting.
“You take any longer and you’re going to have vanilla soup with your slice, and trust me when I say that it isn’t going to taste half as good. It’ll still be delicious because everything Bobby makes is great, but it won’t be the same. Eat up.”
“Bobby?” I scrunch my eyebrows together. She says his name with a lot of affection. It doesn’t sit well with me.
“Yeah, him.” She jerks her thumb over her shoulder toward the kitchen window. A burly dude with a spatula glares at me. He’s got tats too, but I can’t make them out from here. I start eating the pie.