Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Revenant is supposed to be the seedy part of Trinity County, but after prison, the idea that this small town is anything but quaint is ridiculous.
Still, my contract with Edge explicitly states that I agree to stay inside Trinity County and… well, if Creed is gonna kick me out, it won’t be over something as stupid as a beer in the wrong shit-stain small town.
It’s Monday morning right now, and while I do see that the diner is open as I slowly cruise through the bike-lined streets, the rest of the town looks abandoned. I’ve only ever been down here at night-time when things were rowdy enough to give off the impression of happenings, but now, in the morning sunshine, all I see is disappointment.
Still, my only other choice is Bishop, which is all the way over on the other side of the county, and while they do have pubs and I do like a wench in a peasant dress, I highly doubt that’s a better choice than my current location. So I ease the bike into a space in front of the diner, kick the stand, get off, and blow out a breath as I take my helmet off.
This is when I notice my own reflection in the diner window and even though it’s not a proper mirror, I have to agree with Collin Creed.
I look like shit.
All the overthinking that I kinda talked myself out of doing while riding down here comes flooding back.
It’s not real.
Men who get kicked out of CORE, rob stores, and get sentenced to ten years don’t just get out of prison one day and end up at Collin Creed’s Edge Security with a second chance.
It doesn’t happen that way, Shep. You know it doesn’t happen like that.
“But it did,” I mutter, still staring at my reflection in the window. “It did happen that way. Because here I am. And this is real.”
A woman appears on the other side of the window, smiling at me as she wipes down a table. “Come on in,” she says. Though I can’t hear her, I can read her lips.
She’s pretty. Cute, really. Looks like a real nice girl.
But I’m not the kind of man who gets the nice girl. I’m the kind of man nice girls need to run from. So I shake my head, turn away, and just start walking down the street towards the bar I was at last night.
To my surprise, the hours on the door say it’s open and the door is not locked when I pull on it, so I actually go inside.
Some old-school song is playing on a jukebox and the entire place is empty, save for a man standing on the other side of the bar polishing a pint glass. He’s looking up at a TV mounted in a corner, but glances over his shoulder at me when I enter.
“Mornin’,” he says, then goes back to watching the TV, which I notice is playing horse races. The mans stops polishing, almost leaning up on his tiptoes to see the race better, then he lets out a sigh. and says, “Fuck.” He chuckles, looks over his shoulder at me, and shrugs. “Well, there’s another hundred bucks gone. Guaranteed Gold, my ass. More like Lucky Loser.” He laughs at his joke. “Do you wanna beer or somethin’? Or are ya just here killin’ time until the fun starts? If so, you’ll be here all day. We’re not technically closed on Mondays—Lasher would shit a brick if we closed down the whole town to have a literal day off—but it’s known that we kinda are. People won’t start showin’ up for any kind of fun until after dark, friend. So if you’re lookin’ for a party, you’re not gonna find it here.”
I take a seat, set my helmet on the bar, and look around. “Well, I’ve been told by no one in particular”—I look back over at the bartender—“that I look like shit and should take a day.”
The guy nearly snorts. “Collin Creed tell you that? Or was it Amon?”
“Creed. And how’d you know I was one of them, anyway?”
“Shit, you Edge guys might as well be wearin’ nametags, that’s how much you all look alike. Killers, huh? That’s what you guys are?”
It’s a bold question if you ask me. But this guy asks it like he’s asking where I went to high school. “Somethin’ like that.” Then I look around, find the sign for the restrooms, and head that direction without another word to the barkeep.
I push the swinging door open, walk over to the sink, brace my hands on it, and stare at myself in the mirror. “This is real.”
My reflection takes a few moments to agree with me. But I force myself to look into my own blue eyes until the panic in my chest subsides and my heart calms down to a reasonable level. I glance over my shoulder in the mirror, noticing the décor. There are vintage metal signs on the walls. Oil signs, and gas station signs, and street signs. They don’t look like fake reproductions either. They look original. I turn around and see a corkboard on the wall near the door with lots of things tacked to it.