Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 73311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
I’d felt a certain camaraderie with him since I’d become a member of the club. He knew all the pain that those kind of scars wrought. He knew the feeling of self-hatred that poured through me every day when I looked in the mirror.
“You could just go see her…see what’s going on with her life,” Imogen tried. “I know that if Aaron had decided to leave me for my greater good, I’d want him back.”
My chest tightened as her words sunk in.
She’d choose having her life constantly in danger just to be with me? That was fucking crazy.
But I found that I liked the thought. She’d never be Lynn. She’d never choose herself over me and that was exactly what I needed to hear.
“I see her every month,” he told her. “I drive home to make sure she is safe, despite getting reassurances from my old president that she’s fine.”
Imogen sighed, “I think you should try to make contact.”
Ghost’s mouth twisted in an ugly smile. “She thinks I’m dead. How do I make contact with her—open that can of worms—and close it again if she’s not all right with me putting her in danger?”
Imogen pouted.
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly,” Ghost grumbled. “Ex-fucking-actly.”
“So how did your second day of work go?” Big Papa broke in, shutting down Imogen’s line of questioning before it could get any more intense. “Was it better than your first?”
He looked pointedly at Imogen, who giggled and I wanted to junk punch him.
“We dealt with Smoove today,” I muttered darkly.
I’d heard about Smoove, of course, but I hadn’t had the chance to meet him yet.
“Oh yeah?” Big Papa started to laugh. “And how did that go?”
I sighed and started in on my day.
“I don’t understand why y’all still allow them to live together. This is what, the eighteenth domestic violence charge in the last six months?”
“Who is Smoove?” Imogen butted in.
“Smoove is the man that calls in every Thursday to tell us that his wife is trying to beat him with the smoove,” Big Papa started to explain.
“What the hell is a ‘smoove’?” Imogen questioned.
“You know, the thing you smoove your clothes out with?” Tommy Tom snickered.
I rolled my eyes.
“A couple of months ago, Aggie called in about his wife hitting him with the ‘smoove.’ When the dispatcher tried to figure out what it was that he was talking about, she finally realized that he was talking about an iron.” Big Papa couldn’t stop laughing. “He still calls it a smoove, too. And she still hits him with the smoove every Thursday.”
Imogen lost her battle with her laughter and her small frame started to shake.
“That’s kind of hilarious.” She wiped her eyes free of tears. “Was the ‘smoove’ turned on?”
I nodded my head. “Sure was.”
Her laughter started up again and I looked down at her, soothed by the laughter.
Last night had been shit. I’d had to leave her there in the hospital with her mother and sister, while I went back to work. I had a shit ton of paperwork to do—who knew shooting a man meant that many forms had to be filled out? —and had to do a debriefing and explanation with Internal Affairs.
By the time I’d gotten done with all the bullshit, I’d driven straight back home only to find Imogen at her apartment refusing to take a pain pill.
She’d been on the couch crying silently—something that she hadn’t intended for me to see—and I’d practically forced her to take her meds. Which I’d been continuing to do for the last day, every four hours on the dot.
I could see why she didn’t want to take the meds.
Since she was such a small woman, the meds made her loopy, but in my opinion, loopy was better than crying silently when she thought no one would see.
Imogen sighed and leaned more heavily into me.
“You ready for bed, Im?” I ran my hand up her arm.
“Mmm-mmm,” she refused. “I want to stay right here. I’m enjoying being out of the house and away from my mom, who won’t stop torturing me.”
“I don’t think it’s called torturing. I think it’s called nurturing,” I informed her gently.
Imogen shrugged. “Whatever. Just don’t take me home. Take me to your place when you do decide it’s time to leave. If I have to spend one more hour in that woman’s presence, I very well might castrate myself.”
“That’d be pretty impressive,” Tommy Tom supplied. “Especially since you don’t have balls to remove.”
Imogen lifted her lip.
“Dazzle me with a story,” she ordered. “You probably have plenty of them. And I deserve it. You shot me.”
“I didn’t shoot you,” Tommy Tom denied almost immediately. “I gave you a shot, which is totally different than shooting you.”
Tommy Tom had been there to take care of Imogen when we got to the ER. When I had to leave, she’d stayed with him until he was able to bring her to the club since the apartment complex was a crime scene—and still was.