Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
"Mind telling me what the fuck this is about?" the cop finally asks, looking up at me. He's breathing hard, sweat dripping down his forehead. His face is bright red, which I'm guessing is half from exertion and half because he's pissed.
"That's Calvin Titus," I mutter, pointing at the kid before reaching into my pocket and pulling out my phone. "This is a video of him selling pot outside the elementary school today. And if you check his pockets, you'll find Thomas Chandler's wallet and car keys."
The cop's brows crinkle, confusion overtaking his expression.
"For fuck's sake." I shove a hand through my hair to push it away from my forehead. "Thomas Chandler's the old guy who got mugged over on South Sullivan last week. Titus here stole his wallet and his car. Luckily enough for you, Officer"—I glance at the name bar tacked on his uniform shirt— "Johnson, Titus is a dumb son of a bitch. He parked the car outside his grandmama's house instead of ditching it. What's your phone number?"
"My phone number?" Officer Johnson gapes at me.
I roll my eyes toward the ceiling and count to three, searching for a little bit of patience. Every damn time I drag one of these motherfuckers in here, Seattle's finest act like they don't know what to do with them. They're cops. The people I bring in are criminals. Seems pretty fucking obvious to me.
Johnson must realize I'm not in the mood to have to spell it out for him because he quickly rattles off his phone number. I plug it into my phone and send him the video of Titus and his buddies outside the school before tucking my phone back into my pocket.
"What's your name?" Johnson asks me.
"Kincaid."
"You a bounty hunter or something?"
"Something," I mutter, not giving him anything more than that. "Check his pockets."
Johnson pats Titus down before pulling out the wallet and keys in question, as well as a baggie of crack rocks. His eyes widen when he flips open the wallet and sees Thomas Chandler's driver's license and credit cards.
"Motherfucker," he mutters, glancing up at me and then back down at Titus. "You're under arrest, kid."
"I want a lawyer!" Titus yells like that's going to save him. Guess he didn't get the memo that shit doesn't work in the real world like it does on television.
Johnson lumbers to his feet, shoves Titus's shit into his pocket, and hoists the kid to his feet using the cuffs on his wrists. Titus keeps up the theatrics until Johnson threatens to tase him if he doesn't knock it off.
Titus shuts his mouth, choosing to glare daggers at me instead.
"You're going to pay for this," he swears like some fucking Bond villain. "As soon as I get out, I'm coming for you."
I shrug, not really giving a shit if he makes good on that promise or not. He's not the first one that's said something similar to me since I rolled into Seattle. Doubt he'll be the last.
Frankly, I don't give a fuck if he comes for me or not. When you've got nothing left to lose, threats don't mean a whole hell of a lot. Way I see it, if he does make good on his threat someday, he'll be doing my sorry ass a favor.
"I've got questions. Stay put," Johnson orders me before marching Titus around the edge of the desk and into a cell.
“Yep,” I lie.
As soon as he’s out of sight, I head out.
I'm not even halfway down the street when the rain starts.
I fucking hate Seattle. But it’s not like I can go back to Los Angeles, so I guess this is home now.
Fuck, I miss Los Angeles.
No, I miss her.
January.
Her gorgeous face swims to the surface of my mind, her big emerald eyes red-rimmed and haunted. Her normally lustrous blonde hair hangs limp and lifeless around her, that happy glow of hers long gone. She stares at me accusingly, tears slipping down her porcelain cheeks. Even devastated, she's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life.
Too goddamn bad she can't stand the sight of me.
You said you'd always protect me, but you didn't. You're a liar.
I press the heel of my hand to my chest, trying to rub away the way it aches, but it doesn't do a damn bit of good. There is no peace in my future. No forgiveness. No happily ever after.
"Michael Kincaid."
A man steps out from beneath an awning into the middle of the sidewalk, planting his feet apart.
I draw to a stop and eye him. He’s my height, with hard green eyes and blond hair. Even dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, he's got cop written all over him. The bulge under his shirt is obvious—his gun.
I consider telling him that he's got the wrong motherfucker but decide against it. After the shit I did, I honestly didn't expect to make it out of Los Angeles without being scooped up. Somehow, I made it all the way to Syria and back.