Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I could be just weeks away from things being much more on track. No more hiding. No more pretending. No more sacrificing everything that gave my life even the smallest bit of joy.
And once I had that money back, I would have a lot of planning to do. A lot of things to distract me from all these thoughts and memories and feelings I didn’t want to confront.
Until then, though, I was stuck vacillating between thoughts of what we’d shared… and what he was up to now that I was gone.
I sat on my bed, stabbing my fork into a limp chicken caesar salad as I tried to focus on the cheesy reality TV show on my laptop. But all I could think about was being curled up in a soft bed with Raff, pretending I hated his silly romance movies while my heart positively melted in my chest.
It was the same feeling I got when Raff or I shared something funny, sat too close, touched.
“Ugh!” I snapped, slamming the lid of my laptop closed and dropping my half-eaten salad onto the nightstand as I felt the stinging in my eyes.
I wasn’t going to cry.
Except it was too late.
And now that I let the floodgates open, I wasn’t sure I would ever stop flowing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Raff
I got the text when I was negotiating with some shirtless, greasy-haired guy in the back of his pickup truck over some guns that wouldn’t even bank us that much money. But I knew I couldn’t show back up in Shady Valley without a halfway decent haul. And this was my last stop before doing the last leg of my trip.
I wasn’t even going to stop for the three hours of sleep I desperately needed. I was just going to drive the last thirteen hours straight.
I was sick of the road.
Sick of empty hotel rooms.
Sick of not having a passenger princess to shake her head when I belted out a power ballad or pointed out hilariously bad billboard ads or PSAs.
I was sick of wondering what Lula was doing, if she was missing me as much as I was missing her.
I needed to get my ass home to see.
“You’re gonna have to do better on those pocket pistols. Who the fuck wants guns that are only designed to be center-mass accurate at seven yards?” I asked. “One sec,” I added, reaching for my phone.
It was a text from Arty.
A text I had extremely conflicted feelings about. Namely, excitement—for Lula—and dread for me. Because I wanted her to get her money back. I wanted her out of that damn motel. I wanted her to be able to enjoy her little pleasures in life. But, fuck, I knew that once she was back on track, the chances of her giving me the time of day again were slim to none.
It turned out Drake wasn’t the genius he clearly thought he was. It took Arty less than three days to get the asshole to click a link that gave him full access to Drake’s digital wallet. From there, it was a quick matter to transfer the funds to another wallet and give access of that to Lula. Who could then download an app to transfer the crypto to her bank account.
In my mind, I could see her over in Shady Valley, waking up to the best news she’d had in months. And my heart hurt that I wasn’t there to celebrate with her.
“I can do half on the pockets,” the guy said as he turned to spit the saliva that built up from him sucking on his snuff since we started talking.
“Then we have a deal,” I said, tucking my phone away and passing him the cardboard box to load the guns in.
I took it, handed over the cash, then waited for him to leave before I set the box on my hook, putting on gloves, then taking out each gun, checking to make sure they were empty, then loading them one by one into the hidden panels in the car.
Finished with that, I climbed in, took off the gloves, and made my way back to the highway, ready to fight the exhaustion and keep my stops to a minimum to see if I could shave a little time off the thirteen hours ahead of me.
What was I going to do or say when I got back? Yeah, that was the question I pondered the entire fucking ride—through traffic jams and construction zones and deer who seemed intent on suicide that had me nearly offing myself to avoid hitting them.
The problem was, as I pulled onto the main street in Shady Valley about fifteen hours later, I was no closer to coming up with a solution than I’d been when I’d started home.
What I was closer to was stinking, starving, and so tired I was a little worried I might pass out on the walk into the clubhouse from the car.