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)
I’m just confused, that’s all. And probably horny. Maybe I should order a battery buddy off of Amazon to help take the edge off? Or reactivate my dating apps and get back out there? Find a nice, sweet, non-pro athlete guy who likes to talk about the stock market or Star Wars, and can scratch the itch that’s apparently making me susceptible to the slightest kindness from a total asshole. Yeah, that’s a good idea.
I pick up my phone and click into the App Store to download Tinder again.
“Are you texting Griffin to come over for a hookup?” Talia asks hopefully, coming over to stand beside me. When she sees what I’m actually doing, she sighs in disappointment, her eyes rolling hard enough to click in her skull.
“Mom says your face’ll get stuck like that if you keep doing it.” My mother’s never said that, but a mom somewhere did.
“Sometimes what you’re looking for is right in front of you.” Talia pushes the phone down before I can hit reinstall on the white fire logo where I might find my knight in shining armor, or at least a dick without Griffin attached to it.
“Sometimes what’s right in front of me is a jerk with a cute butt and anger management issues,” I correct.
“Sounds hot.”
“Ugh,” I groan. But it has nothing to do with Tinder or Griffin or Talia this time, and everything to do with the notification I just received from my website. I click into my inbox to read the email.
It’s from the same person who messaged before, and reads . . .
That ring shouldn’t have been at the antique store. It was a regrettable, accidental mistake. The ring has deep sentimental value and I need it back. Will pay any price. Please.
The tone could be read as clipped, or it could be desperation.
But either way, it relights my desire to find the ring that started all this. I have a buyer on the hook, which would solve my credit card issue, and it’s someone who has a heartfelt attachment to it, which is always good for an emotional boost. It’s also a very welcome and needed distraction from trying to figure out what’s going on in my head—and farther south—about Griffin.
I need to find the ring. I have to find it. And get it back.
I’ve talked to several pawnshop owners. Now it’s time to talk to the even seedier fences and see if anyone has tried to sell them the ring. My ring.
Gulp.
“So, Mr. Mad Dog, have you seen this?” Trying to keep my hand from shaking, I hold up my phone to show him the picture after I finish explaining why I’ve approached him on what’s apparently his street corner. “It’s very important, and I promise I have no interest in however you might’ve come into the ring’s possession.”
I can’t see Mad Dog’s eyes behind his dark sunglasses, which he’s wearing despite the spring sun being mild at best, but I hope he’s looking at the picture of the ring.
“It’s possession? Like by a demon? Or bad juju?” Since the question is asked in complete seriousness, like we’re on the set of the latest horror film, I decide to roll with it.
Nodding, I lean in close enough to smell his Old Spice and the underlying body odor he was likely trying to cover with the generous dousing of cheap cologne. Lowering my voice, I confide, “Yeah. The ring’s possessed. If you’re not the rightful heir, it’s . . . sccchrrrrit—” I draw my finger across my throat to make sure he understands how serious the situation might be. “Only the family can wear it without deadly consequences, and anyone who keeps the ring from them will be cursed for eternity.”
He lowers his sunglasses down his nose with one finger, revealing dark eyes filled with doubt but also a fair amount of consideration as he stares at me. But then he chuckles, the disbelief winning out. “Girl, you’re crazy as hell.”
Shit. I thought I might be getting somewhere with the fence from Paul’s list.
But I can’t give up, so, unwilling to let go of the one possible path to Mad Dog admitting he has the ring, I dig in my heels and go harder. “No, really. A few days ago, I was totally happy, my life was great. Now, I’m in financial ruin, I’ve got a weird crush trying to develop on a guy who basically hates me, I’m out of Thin Mints, and . . . and . . . I got hit by a car.”
Okay, that’s a stretch. I feel like I got hit by a car, but despite there not actually being any car-to-body contact, I’m willing to lie my way into getting the ring if that’s what it takes.
Mad Dog’s eyes drip over me. “You don’t look like you got hit by a car. You seem fine to me.”