Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Lassiter tilted his head and looked up. But not to the sky.
The golden arches in front of him were glowing like a false sun, and for a split second, he wondered if maybe he could try to grab some of that yellow light. It seemed more appetizing than the Big Mac he was going to try to choke down—
Beeeeeeeeeeeep.
“What the hell are you doing, waiting for your brain to show up?”
At the ripping horn and the shooting scorn, he jumped out of the way of a truck entering the drive-thru lane. The big-as-a-house F-150 had been murdered, everything blacked out from the windows to the rims to the bumpers and the body paint, and the guy behind the wheel was as midnight-icured as his ride, his black hair and goatee paired with black clothes, his dark, nasty attitude like an anti-social projection so that everything was badass-uniform.
“Sorry,” Lassiter murmured.
“Yeah, whatever.”
With an engine roar, the truck sped off to crush the order window, and Lassiter watched it go with a feeling of nostalgia.
He missed Vishous. Even though the brother never had a nice word to say.
Actually, that was the most endearing part of the guy, his constant parboil of irritation a low barrier to achievement: That twitchy sonofabitch was easier to tee up than a golf ball.
As another car went by, this time a Volvo station wagon, he looked through the restaurant’s windows. Inside the well-lit interior, there were all kinds of humans milling around, the place kind of busy given the late hour and the remote location—
Holy crap.
This was the McDonald’s where he’d gotten Tohr’s food three years ago. Then again, his little Land of the Lost cave was right around the corner from where he’d found the guy, relatively speaking.
Feeling like full circle was the name of the game tonight, whether he liked it or not, he went over and pulled open the door, catching a whiff of hot oil. As he once again took a shot at remembering what he’d bought Tohr, he looked around and didn’t approve of the renovations or the change in business practices. A bank of self-serve soda machines took up the wall next to the opposite exit, and gone was the lineup of open-air cash registers, with their uniformed attendants and trays. Now there were ATM-like order stations with people touch-screening their meals in, and the folks working with the food were fewer and farther between.
It all seemed so digital and impersonal, although if he was looking for companionship as he ordered his Happy Meal, that was pretty pathetic.
Making his choices and manifesting a Visa card to pay for them, he turned to the pickup monitor mounted at the ceiling to check where he was in the queue—
A handsome blond man the size of a house was pivoting away from receiving his meal, and talk about a calorie load. The amount of hamburgers and fries and sundaes on that tray suggested he was feeding a family of four—except he went off alone to the drink fill station. Given the size of him, that pro wrestler’s body was clearly used to processing that kind of binge. Or maybe it was just a little snack on the way home… whereupon he was going to eat his own garage out of starvation.
Riiiight, because he was an absolute beast when he was hangry, Lassiter tacked on as he thinned his lips.
It was when a guy with a mane of long, streaked blond hair sauntered in with a buddy who had a skull trim that the angel sent a glare up to the ceiling.
“If the ghost of Peter frickin’ Steele walks through that door next, I’m leaving.”
Of course, the Creator wasn’t going to hear him, and even if He did, the ya-gotta-be-kidding wasn’t going to make any impression. But come on, obvious much?
“And Vishous would never drive a truck,” he muttered as his number popped up in the come-n-get-it screen’s pole position.
After he grabbed his Big Mac and his fries, he went over and stared at the drink choices with his cup. He picked Coke because he felt like death and surely caffeine and sugar would perk him up.
There were plenty of seats to choose from, and he headed for a table with a pair of benches in the front windows because it was far away from Not Real Rhage—who was unwrapping and woofing back his chicken sandwiches and his Quarter Pounders like he was chasing after high cholesterol and a heart attack.
Outside, cars went in and out of the drive-thrus of the Wendy’s and the Arby’s across the street—and that’s when he remembered this side-of-the-highway conglomeration of fast-food joints and gas stations was crammed in tight to the exits on either side of an overpass. Which explained all the people at the late hour—well, the ones not force-fed to him, at any rate. If he remembered correctly, this was one of the last stop-offs before the Northway started hauling it through the big mountains toward Canada, so people needed to get their grub and their fuel or hold their peace for fifty miles.