Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“No,” she scoffs. “I haven’t been drinking. Can’t a girl just call up a friend and see what he’s doing? If he’s busy or, I don’t know, just sitting around, twiddling his dick or something? That’s normal, right?”
My brain stuttered when she called me a friend, but I got completely lost about the time she said “twiddling my dick,” because said appendage perked up like Penny was calling attendance and he wanted to be sure he was counted as here. I shift on the couch uncomfortably, reminding my dick that there will never be a time where Penny wants him. “Twiddling thumbs,” I correct.
“Tomato, potato, same thing,” she says. Her voice is airy, breathy, like she’s aiming for no big deal, but there’s a fair to mid chance she just ran from a bear. Or, more likely, a goon.
“Penny! Are you okay?” I bark. It’s rude, abrupt, and demanding, but my stomach is trying to crawl up my throat as the need to make sure nothing goon-ish has happened to her grows.
“Yeah, fine. Why?”
I’ve had years to study Penny, her mannerisms, her voice, and every emotion that flits across her expressive face, and though I usually get anger from her, I’m familiar with the whole spectrum that comprises her heart and brain. So from her tone alone, I can picture her cute wrinkled nose of don’t talk to me like that along with her total obliviousness to why I might be angry. That’s enough to reassure me that the goons haven’t found her.
“Because in the five years I’ve known you, you’ve never called me once.” Another thought hits me. “Is Dom okay?”
“Oh!” she says, both relieved and a little surprised, but still sounding weird. “Yeah, fine. I think. I mean, I haven’t talked to him today, but probably? That’s not why I’m calling, though.”
I take a deep breath, gritting my teeth to keep from shouting, Why are you calling me, then? My default asshole mode won’t do me any good right now. Penny would probably hang up on me just to further piss me off and do a happy dance over my rising blood pressure. “Why are you calling?” I manage to say in barely a growl.
“I wondered if you might, if you’re not too busy, maybe go with me to talk to someone about a particular missing ring?” If she hemmed and hawed any more before getting through that question, I would’ve crawled through the phone and strangled her myself, saving Miles Conniver’s goons the trouble.
“Are you tracking down the fences?” I shout.
“If you’re gonna be like that, never mind.”
After clearing my throat, I try again. “Do you want to talk to the fences?” There, totally calm and collected, if not a bit grumbly.
“I already did,” she informs me cheerfully. “Mad Dog said the man to go to is Johnny K, but he’s a hockey fan, and I figured you might be my ace in the hole there. Plus, there was that whole moment when Mad Dog got a teensy bit irritated with me and kinda got in my face, so I realized it might be better to do this with a buddy. And since you already know what’s going on, and I wouldn’t have to catch you up on the whole story like I would Dom, you’re the obvious choice to go with me. That is, if you’re not too busy twiddling your dick . . . or your thumbs.”
She didn’t take a single breath during any of that. But despite the rambling, there was a lot of information, like that I now need to track down somebody named Mad Dog and give him a taste of his own medicine, because how fucking dare he threaten Penny? Also, she’s asking me for help. Not her brother, not her parents, not a friend. Me, Griffin Mahoney, the guy she hates who fucked this whole ring thing up for her from the get-go.
That pride I felt over my goal feels small compared to what’s growing in my chest now. Penny reached out to me in her time of need. Sure, it’s partially because Dom would give her shit for not being careful with such a valuable piece of jewelry, but it’s also because she wants my help. In some twisted way, when shit hits the fan, she’s coming to me.
“I’m on my way. Where are you?”
I’m going to kill her. No, I’m going to kiss her and then kill her.
No, you’re not. You’re not gonna do either of those things. You’re gonna help, that’s it.
I argue with myself the whole way to meet Penny, and when I finally lay eyes on her, my sigh of relief is soul deep. She’s okay.
More than okay, she’s sitting at a café table outside a coffee shop, petting a dog and talking to its owner like she’s got nothing but time and friendship to offer. Selfishly, I wish she could offer that to me.