Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
"I'll take your word for it," I say, pressing a hand to my stomach as it growls.
I don't know if it's responding to the anticipation of decent food or if my fried lunch at the diner is going to turn into a gastric emergency.
I watch with a hint of mesmerization as he scrapes his huge hand over the top of his head, frustration clear in his actions and the sour look on his handsome face.
"I think it went better than I expected," he finally says. "We were both accepted into their little organization."
"A job offer of sorts doesn't exactly mean we'll have access to the shit we need to break this group up for good," I remind him.
"Better than nothing," he mutters. "Or at least better than them only taking one of us."
"True," I quickly agree, eyeing the couch but knowing I'd rather roll around in the mud than sit on that dirty thing again.
I always feel like I need to shower in scalding hot water and undiluted bleach after being around people like the ones at the diner, and today is no different.
I do my best not to read too much into his words. It's not that he wants both of us on this job. It's just that we can do so much better when there's more than one of us, and it's much safer to have someone close who knows what's truly going on. Even if it's just so you're not fighting the same battle alone.
"Any idea when you think they'll reach out?" he asks.
I shrug. "No idea."
"The majority of the people in that place were high," he mutters. "They don't seem very organized."
"They might appear that way, but those folks in there are probably people they don't fully trust. Think of them as the outer circle," I explain. "Those are the people they won't mind sacrificing if they have to. The League wouldn't be on Cerberus' radar if they didn't have something substantial going on in their inner circle."
He nods, contemplating. "I guess you're right."
"Just experience talking."
"Hard to feel safe around people who would rather get high than take care of business," he says after a long pause.
"That distraction can work in our favor. They'll almost always circle back to their task, but it'll give us time to reevaluate when shit has the potential to go south for us," I say. "And we're never safe around them. In my experience with these people, everyone below the top guy is expendable. They always tend to wear out their usefulness. I just hope we can become useful fast enough to make a difference."
"Let's just hope the people we're working with aren't a shoot-first, ask-questions-later type," he says with another rough scrape of his hand over the top of his head. "And that they aren't expecting us to use drugs to show our loyalty."
"Our cover stories are good. They researched our aliases. They know that Curtis is on parole for felony theft and manufacturing dope, and Lyle is pending charges for drugs. It's not out of character for us to refuse to stay out of prison, and that backstory tells them that we're like them, just have to stay clean while on paper. Just make sure to look extra envious if you're ever around and offered."
"Got it," he says as he pushes off the counter and walks toward his room. "I guess we sit and wait."
"Yeah," I agree, talking to his back just before he closes himself into his room.
I eye the couch again, trying to figure out how I can spend the rest of my day, but the clutter in the house and the stench are driving me crazy. A horrible sign considering we just got started.
I'm still staring down at the couch as if it personally offended me when Zeus's bedroom door opens again.
"I'm going to go for a drive," he says, walking toward the front door.
The house is small enough that he almost brushes my shoulder as he walks past.
"Clear my head or some shit," he adds.
"Okay," I mumble, not liking the idea of being here alone with my thoughts.
I glance over at him to find him looking over his shoulder, staring at me expectantly.
"You coming?" he asks.
It takes every ounce of training I've accumulated over the years not to make a yipping noise and jump for joy at the offer.
Instead, I channel all the calmness I can muster, shrugging my shoulders. "What the hell else do I have to do today?"
As I walk out of the house, letting him lock it up behind us, I'm reminded that we can't have any real conversations in the vehicle without Cerberus overhearing them at minimum. Where we were parked at the diner didn't give us the best viewpoint of what was going on with the vehicle while we were having our meeting, so we have to assume someone could've either put a tracker on it or wired it for audio. The invite feels less inclusive now and more like a pity offering.