Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
He doesn't chuckle like I know the men back in New Mexico would. We aren't exactly known for laughing around here.
He doesn't speak again until I turn around, a smoldering hot cup of coffee in my hand.
"Late night?"
I narrow my eyes at him. Is the man keeping tabs on me or some shit?
As if he can read my mind, he holds his hands up. "I got in at two, and your bike was gone."
I know he doesn't owe me an explanation, but there's a part of me that's glad he's giving me one.
"What's with the twenty fucking questions?" I growl, leaning against the counter and taking too large of a sip of coffee.
I fight the urge to wince as the nearly boiling-hot liquid scorches my throat.
He shrugs. "My next job is a bartender position down the mountain. Just trying to get into character."
"Practice on someone else," I growl.
He waves his arm around him, indicating the lack of people.
I continue to glare at him. The man looks like he should be pushing the buttons for the administration of lethal injections for the state rather than pouring drinks and chatting up folks getting drunk.
On the other hand, there's a new wave of women who want to be manhandled because of shit they've either read in books or seen on television.
And there my body goes, responding to what happened last night with Zara.
"When are we getting some more new people?" I ask, needing the information because I have to make the decision either to call an end to this farce of a job or make a plan for when I'll need to have my shit together enough that I don't look like a complete failure when new people arrive.
"Won't be long," Jericho says, his eyes roaming toward the upstairs balcony as if he's not looking forward to there being more people in the house.
I know I'm not really interested in there being more people here, but I knew coming in that nearly every room in this place would have an occupant. Although, I doubt there will be many times when all the team members will be here at the same time. This is more of a landing place between jobs more than anything else. The more we work, the further those jobs will take us from this place. It only makes sense to have other temporary housing in order for us to respond quickly to a situation when we need to.
"Will we know anything about them?" I ask, feeling like a fish out of fucking water carrying on a full conversation with this man.
This may be the most we've tolerated each other since moving in here together.
"If Ace thinks to tell us a fucking thing. He's been more than a little distracted lately."
I nod, knowing this for myself, but since I can't seem to make much of a dent in my own case, I've seen it more as a relief than an issue of contention.
"Is it always like that with him?"
Jericho narrows his eyes before speaking, annoyance clear in his face. "Eddie Yarrow is an excellent agent."
I take another sip of my hot coffee without speaking.
When he doesn't speak again, I carry my coffee out of the kitchen, feeling his hot stare drilling into my back all the way out of the room.
I have no plans other than going to the bar. Despite it being Christmas Day, I know I'll head in that direction to see if Zara is working. I imagine she'll be the one to take that shift so the old lady can spend time with her family.
I should probably put a little distance between the two of us so she doesn't get any wild ideas about what this is between us, but I know I won't. I know I'll end up at the bar tonight at some point as much as I know that I'll at least be watching her from the shadows when she locks the door and heads home.
Instead of trying to shove all that realization down into a dark corner of my mind, I pull out my cell phone and make a call.
"It's five in the morning here," Hound says instead of offering me a hello.
"I know," I tell him instead of offering an apology I don't mean.
I hear him whisper something to his wife, Gigi, and then the rustle of sheets as he climbs out of bed.
The next sound to meet my ears is the closing of a door and all this time he waits to speak. We talk often, but neither of us fill the time with pointless chatter.
"Is there a problem?" he asks, and I know he's somewhere alone.
Hound is well aware of some of my struggles. Early in my time with the Marines, I got closer to him than any other person I had before or since. I confessed the crazy shit in my head, and he urged me to look on the bright side of things—that there was a use for my type of skills that could keep me on the law-abiding side of things.