Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Jag’s eyes lit up. “Oh. Can I have some of the rusted ones for my trap? I’ll get Dex to drive the truck, and Dane will help move them. He’s very strong.” Any opportunity to boast about his man was good for Jag.
Frank sighed. “Fine. But keep me posted on the progress,” he said, because in his experience, it was better to allow it and know what Jag was up to instead of one day finding out he’d gone forward with a far worse plan.
When Frank returned to Ros and Shane’s home, the two dogs greeted him as if he’d been gone for a whole day, not twenty minutes. By the time he opened the ledger and looked at the rows of items and numbers, it was clear neither his heart nor head were in it, so he walked past the fence, to help himself to one of the massive tractor tires resting nearby. If he couldn’t think, he might as well burn excess energy doing some light training for the competition.
But just as he dragged the heavy thing away from its three sisters and was about to warm up, his phone buzzed with an insistent call.
“Fuuuck!” he screamed into the darkening sky. The dogs started barking in reply.
He took a deep breath, but that wasn’t enough when he saw the name on the screen.
Paul.
And that meant one thing: instead of enjoying a peaceful night in, he’d get to dispose of a body.
“What’s up?” Frank asked when he picked up the call, because business was business.
“Hey Frankie! It’s been a while,” Paul said in a voice that increasingly betrayed how much he smoked. “How have you been?”
“Busy, so let’s cut the small talk. You have junk for me?”
“Busy? On your birthday? And here I was thinking I could surprise you with some fun!”
Well, at least the old bastard didn’t have the not-so-bright idea to arrive at the gates of the junkyard uninvited. If that had happened, Frank would have sicced Jag on him, regardless of their shared past.
He sat on the tire because he had a feeling this might be a longer chat. Possibly one of those in which Paul tried to entice Frank back into jobs that involved producing cadavers rather than just disposing of them.
“Oh? It’s my birthday? I forgot.” In case Paul was hoping for an invitation.
The raspy laugh echoing in the receiver brought back memories of a time which, while violent, had been much more carefree. But Frank shook off the temptation to go back to his old ways. He had changed and didn’t want to go back to the man he used to be.
“Well, Frank, It’s your fortieth. The big one. You need to celebrate.”
Frank smiled to himself despite his feelings for Paul being ambivalent at best. “Fine. What should I do? Go out and party? I’m too old for the clubs now. I feel like I’m in kindergarten when I sometimes take the plunge.”
“Oh, I got you, Frank. Do you trust me?”
Trick question. “I trust you enough to hide your shit.” Which was an incriminating kind of trust that went both ways. They both had dirt on each other, which created a perfect balance.
“Well good. I’ll send you an address. Come at eight.”
Frank groaned. “Listen, Paul, I appreciate it, but I don’t have time—”
“Trust me, Frank. You’ll like my surprise. Live a little. Christ! Can’t even give my old friend a gift anymore?”
“Okay. Fine. Send the address.”
Fuck it. Paul was right for once in his life. Frank did deserve to live a little. Especially on his birthday.
Chapter 2
Frank
The two hours remaining until eight provided Frank with just enough time to clean up, change, and drive to the address Paul had sent him. The navigation led him to an area with modern apartment buildings, which meant that maybe the two of them would end up drinking and reminiscing about the good old days while carefully omitting the bad ones. Frank had made the effort of dressing in his best jeans, a leather jacket, and a T-shirt with the logo of Shane’s dog training business.
He accessorized with heavy boots, rings big enough to break teeth, and several necklaces he’d made himself out of scrap. As much as he loved a bit of bling, wearing jewelry wasn’t always practical in Frank’s line of work, so he’d seized the opportunity and gone all out.
He felt a bit uneasy walking the clean, cream-colored corridor that wouldn’t be out of place in a nice hotel. His world was all about hauling junk into a truck and filling holes in the ground with cement, not fancy places where people drank martinis, but he wasn’t intimidated by wealth either.
At forty, Frank had been through enough shit to know a man’s worth didn’t depend on the kind of car he drove or—in his case—how many gold bars he had stashed under the floor. He was who he was and didn’t give a fuck what someone residing here might think of him.