Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Two customers occupied the laundromat.
They clocked him instantly.
One, a twenty-something woman folded towels on top of a dryer, while an older gentleman sat on a bench near the front window, waiting for his cycle to finish. He went back to scrolling his phone after a quick, wary glance Saint’s way.
Saint crossed to the counter slowly and deliberately.
“Can I help you?” the attendant asked without looking up from a decade-old, crinkled muscle car magazine.
The guy had shaggy, light brown hair with a matching mustache and was thin enough to be blown over by a gentle breeze. His plain white T-shirt had orange dust speckled across it. An empty Cheetos bag rested next to his open magazine.
“I want to use machine thirteen.”
The guy froze mid-page turn. The room didn’t go quiet, but something shifted.
The attendant lifted his head in a slow pan up Saint’s body. His eyes widened as round as the porthole on his washers. Yeah, cut or no cut, this guy knew exactly who stood in front of him.
“Uh, sorry, man. No, thirteen,” he said too fast. “Boss is super, uh, super… whatever that word is. Don’t like the number thirteen.”
“Superstitious.”
“Yeah. That’s it. Twelve and fourteen are open.”
Saint placed his palms flat on the counter and leaned forward, looming over the attendant. “I want thirteen.”
The guy’s pointy Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Right. Uh…” He wiped orange fingers on his T-shirt as he reached beneath the counter.
Going for a gun?
Saint’s pulse jumped. He immediately reached for the piece on his belt, but before he had a chance to grab it, the guy’s hand returned, empty. “Okay, here you go.” He grabbed a pencil and a scrap of paper, scrawled a ten-digit number, then shoved the paper across the counter like it was hot to the touch.
As he reached for the paper, the door jangled, announcing a new arrival. From the corner of his eye, Saint caught both customers glance up from their seats. The woman gasped and paled while the man mouthed a curse. She abandoned her folding and scurried toward a back exit. Two seconds after she ran past him, the older man left as well.
Their sudden departure was enough to have the back of Saint’s neck prickling with unease. “What did you do?” he asked the attendant, who looked everywhere but at Saint.
Slowly, so as not to startle whoever had entered, Saint turned around to find a large man blocking the exit. Jet-black hair, black jeans, and a black T-shirt, combined with a scowl and a jagged scar crossing his left jaw, gave the newcomer a menacing look. Thick gold rings that would hurt like hell if they smashed into Saint’s face rested on at least five of his fingers. He didn’t bother to conceal the knife hanging from his belt, but at least he didn’t have a gun unless it was hidden.
“You called in the muscle,” Saint said with a sigh. He must have a panic button under the counter. He glanced over his shoulder. “What’d you go and do that for? I followed the protocol.”
The attendant stood there, eyes bugging and mouth flapping like a suffocating fish.
“Time to go,” the guy said in a deep, reverberating voice that matched his size and stature.
“Works for me. I got what I came for.” He fanned himself with the scrap of paper containing the phone number. Lord knew if the attendant gave him the real contact information.
“Leave the number.”
Of course, this wasn’t going to go down easily.
“Really?” he asked, tilting his head. “Your boss doesn’t like to make money? What’s his name? Silas Crow?”
In his peripheral vision, Saint caught sight of Zach and Maverick on foot, inching closer to the laundromat. Backup had arrived. Knowing they were close and ready to jump in to kick ass lowered Saint’s blood pressure.
The guy’s eyes narrowed upon hearing the name. “Not from you. We know your club. You have no interest in using that number.” The guy narrowed his eyes and stared with what he probably assumed was a menacing glare, but this fucker had no idea who raised Saint. Deadlier men than him tried to destroy Saint from infancy, and if they hadn’t succeeded, this loser sure wouldn’t.
“Well, sure.” He shrugged. “We don’t need it for… business purposes.” Neither of them was willing to say the word drugs out loud. The last thing he needed was this guy or the laundromat attendant getting a video of him saying he wanted to buy or sell drugs. Clearly, the newcomer wasn’t an idiot if he monitored his words as well. “But if you know our club, as you claim, you know we love a good party.”
“Find a new way to get your… party favors.”
“Nah, I don’t think so. This seems really convenient.” He glanced at the paper, then back to his new friend with a smirk. “Yeah, I think I’ll give them a call as soon as I leave here. Unless you wanna pass a message along for me.”