Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 82187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
God pulled back just far enough to whisper roughly, “I don’t give a fuck anymore. It’s you and me.”
Day stared at him, eyes shiny, chest heaving, before he rushed forward again and kissed him back like he’d die if he stopped.
Ramon Vasquez
Vasquez sat on the edge of the motel bed, head bowed, listening to the shrill, rhythmic creak of a headboard slamming into the wall next door. At least someone was having a better Saturday night than him.
In the parking lot, two people screamed at each other in a language he didn’t recognize, voices overlapping so violently that a physical altercation was imminent.
He tried to ignore it all.
His ribs ached every time he breathed. His lip was split and swollen, and the taste of old blood lingered like a rusty penny on his tongue.
One eye was still puffy underneath and too tender to touch.
He wasn’t some lightweight who’d never taken a beating, but he hadn’t lifted a finger to fight back.
He’d deserved the ass-whupping
It was as if he’d let Ruxs and Green beat him as a kind of penance.
He held Joshi’s business card between two fingers, flipping it back and forth under the bedside lamp.
The white cardstock gleamed like a brilliant star in his dark world.
Kiran Joshi
That was all it said.
No way to contact him unless he gave it. No title for what his job was or the damage he could do to Vasquez’s career…his entire life.
Vasquez stared at the name for almost an hour before picking up the phone on the nightstand and dialing the ten digits on the back.
The line clicked twice before ringing.
“Kiran.”
Vasquez swallowed. “Hey. Uh, it’s…Ramon.”
A pause.
“What’s this number? Where are you?”
He sighed. “At a motel.”
Another silence, heavier this time.
“Why a motel?” Joshi asked.
Vasquez scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw, wincing at the bruise there. “Long, shitty story.”
Joshi was quiet again, and Vasquez rushed on, “I just called to say thanks. For helping me last week. For giving a damn.”
“What are you doing right now?”
Vasquez stared at the muted TV, where two men were pretending to be big game hunters.
“Sitting here. Watching nothing.”
Joshi’s voice was softer. “I’m not doing much either. Trying a new recipe. Come over. Eat with me. I hate eating alone.”
“I don’t—” Vasquez hesitated. “I look like shit, Kiran.”
“I don’t care.”
Vasquez’s chest tightened. He was so fucking tired. So close to giving up.
Earlier that afternoon, he’d been called to the nursing home to calm his father after he’d bitten a nurse hard enough to draw blood.
And now Mercer’s burner phone kept lighting up on his nightstand. New texts piling up, the dollar figure growing bigger every time.
Fifty fucking grand.
Enough to disappear with his father to somewhere warm, sunny, and very far away.
Vasquez rubbed his forehead—the only area on his face that didn’t hurt.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Vasquez stood in front of the cracked mirror above the sink, running a finger gently along his lip, testing the tenderness. Then checked his outfit one last time.
He had on his best pair of dark jeans, hugging his thighs and ass, a simple white tee, and his camel blazer that he’d heard complemented his skin tone.
He grabbed his keys and left the room without looking back, dodging the couple still fighting in the parking lot.
Vasquez followed the GPS directions until the city streets got quieter and cleaner. Nobody was loitering with paper-bagged bottles. No hookers. No gunshots echoing in the distance.
He eased his battered jalopy into Joshi’s driveway beside a sleek black Mercedes.
The house lights were on, warm and inviting through the blinds.
Joshi opened the door before he reached the porch.
“Hey.”
They stared at each other for a beat before Joshi stepped forward and pulled him into a gentle hug.
Vasquez closed his eyes, inhaling the clean soap-and-spice scent. The solid press of Joshi’s chest against his own did things to him he didn’t want to get addicted to. Things that made him feel wanted…and worth saving.
He pulled back, and Joshi searched his face, brushing his fingertips across his cheek.
“Your lip’s still bad.”
“I’ve had worse,” he muttered.
Joshi pressed his lips into a tight line before he ground out, “You should’ve pressed charges against those crazy fuckers.”
“You can’t press charges against karma.”
Joshi let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t say that. You didn’t deserve it.”
Vasquez shrugged. “I never know when to keep my damn mouth shut. Or mind my own business.”
Joshi took his hand. “Come inside.”
Joshi’s place smelled incredible, like garlic, tomato, and baked bread.
The living room furniture and decorations were minimal but comfortable, with an oversized gray sofa and a huge Persian rug.
There was no TV blaring in the background, but two shelves were overcrowded with books.
Joshi gestured toward the kitchen. “Beer? Wine? Water?”
“Beer,” he answered.
Joshi grabbed one from the fridge—expensive and imported—popped the cap, and handed it to him.
Vasquez sat on a stool at the breakfast bar—though his nerves were all over the place—and took a long drink, eyes drifting around.