Dying by the Hour (A Jesse Sullivan Novel Book 2) by Kory M. Shrum Page B
Authors: Kory M. Shrum
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another small yellow and orange suction dart stuck to the window. I wiggle the bugger free and unfold the message.
Diner at midnight.
Midnight is only 3 hours away. I think about sleeping but change my mind. My bed seems impossibly large and cold without a cuddle partner. And it isn’t like I have someone to call. Ally’s jumped ship and Lane is probably still mad at me.
And my house is too damn quiet. I keep going into rooms and hitting light switches only to have nothing happen. I should have told Ally about this electrical problem before she took a vacation. Maybe I can get Lane to do it. And the window. I can’t forget about the window. What good is a lock with a big damn hole by my door? I should also consider an alarm.
But I’ll think about all that later, after I talk to Lane.
My downtown office isn’t that exciting. There’s a parking lot in the back, connected to Broadway by a short, narrow alley. I park in the lot, then walk around to the storefront of Full Bleed, Lane’s comic book store. It’s how we met actually. He owns the building and I rent one of the offices. Brinkley chose the location, so it isn’t like I chose my office space for the hottie landlord.
Though it is totally something I would do.
I find Lane standing by a glass case talking action figures with a kid that’s probably sixteen years old. The kid wears black jeans and wide shoes matching the red skateboard leaning against his thigh. The kid points at something in the case and gestures wildly. I know this for the geekspeak it is and don’t interrupt.
The place is tidy and well-lit. Lane takes good care of it. Some comic book stores feel cluttered and dark to me, like a mother’s basement inhabited by a troll. But Lane’s store feels like what it is, a store. The center tables have comic books alphabetized like CDs and you can flip through each of the plastic-coated volumes. In the glass case, the cash register sits on is where the role-playing dice, collectables and anything Lane is nervous about getting stolen are kept. Along the walls are other action figures and paraphernalia for this or that series or show. In the corner, are two kids playing the newest version of Call of Duty: Ghosts .
That is the extent of Lane’s generosity, the option to preview most games before purchasing them.
After the skater leaves without buying anything, I approach Lane.
“Hey.” I think this is an acceptable greeting. Obviously not.
“I’m working.” His snotty tone is hard to overlook. Because Lane is usually incredibly sweet, it makes his tantrums more obvious.
“O- kay .” I know waiting it out will just cause a bigger fight later. “What did I do?”
Lane plops onto the high stool behind the cabinet. “Nothing. You just did your job. I’m doing my job. Everything is fine.”
At least it’s something to go on. “So you’re mad about Jones.”
“You saved a man’s life,” Lane says, but his jaw is working on an invisible strap of leather.
“Yet here we are,” I tell him.
“I’m not mad,” he spits.
“Oh really?” I ask. I touch my forehead with my index finger. “That’s not what this vein in your forehead here says.”
“Just drop it, okay? You don’t understand.”
I shift my weight, leaning against the counter to try and alleviate the pain in my hip. Freaking rigor mortis.
“I get it. You didn’t complete the replacement. You’re disappointed and you hate that your license will be postponed. But you will get it, I promise.”
“You’ve replaced 100 people—”
“84,” I correct. “Jones was 84.”
“ 84 ,” Lane hisses, venomous. “None of them died.”
“And you’ve only replaced like 8 or 9,” I say.
“11,” he counters.
“I lost Nessa to the same man who’d stabbed you,” I say. “And I almost lost you .”
He gives me a look. A look I have never seen before.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Look, I’m just saying I think Nessa would disagree,” I say. “Just
Diner at midnight.
Midnight is only 3 hours away. I think about sleeping but change my mind. My bed seems impossibly large and cold without a cuddle partner. And it isn’t like I have someone to call. Ally’s jumped ship and Lane is probably still mad at me.
And my house is too damn quiet. I keep going into rooms and hitting light switches only to have nothing happen. I should have told Ally about this electrical problem before she took a vacation. Maybe I can get Lane to do it. And the window. I can’t forget about the window. What good is a lock with a big damn hole by my door? I should also consider an alarm.
But I’ll think about all that later, after I talk to Lane.
My downtown office isn’t that exciting. There’s a parking lot in the back, connected to Broadway by a short, narrow alley. I park in the lot, then walk around to the storefront of Full Bleed, Lane’s comic book store. It’s how we met actually. He owns the building and I rent one of the offices. Brinkley chose the location, so it isn’t like I chose my office space for the hottie landlord.
Though it is totally something I would do.
I find Lane standing by a glass case talking action figures with a kid that’s probably sixteen years old. The kid wears black jeans and wide shoes matching the red skateboard leaning against his thigh. The kid points at something in the case and gestures wildly. I know this for the geekspeak it is and don’t interrupt.
The place is tidy and well-lit. Lane takes good care of it. Some comic book stores feel cluttered and dark to me, like a mother’s basement inhabited by a troll. But Lane’s store feels like what it is, a store. The center tables have comic books alphabetized like CDs and you can flip through each of the plastic-coated volumes. In the glass case, the cash register sits on is where the role-playing dice, collectables and anything Lane is nervous about getting stolen are kept. Along the walls are other action figures and paraphernalia for this or that series or show. In the corner, are two kids playing the newest version of Call of Duty: Ghosts .
That is the extent of Lane’s generosity, the option to preview most games before purchasing them.
After the skater leaves without buying anything, I approach Lane.
“Hey.” I think this is an acceptable greeting. Obviously not.
“I’m working.” His snotty tone is hard to overlook. Because Lane is usually incredibly sweet, it makes his tantrums more obvious.
“O- kay .” I know waiting it out will just cause a bigger fight later. “What did I do?”
Lane plops onto the high stool behind the cabinet. “Nothing. You just did your job. I’m doing my job. Everything is fine.”
At least it’s something to go on. “So you’re mad about Jones.”
“You saved a man’s life,” Lane says, but his jaw is working on an invisible strap of leather.
“Yet here we are,” I tell him.
“I’m not mad,” he spits.
“Oh really?” I ask. I touch my forehead with my index finger. “That’s not what this vein in your forehead here says.”
“Just drop it, okay? You don’t understand.”
I shift my weight, leaning against the counter to try and alleviate the pain in my hip. Freaking rigor mortis.
“I get it. You didn’t complete the replacement. You’re disappointed and you hate that your license will be postponed. But you will get it, I promise.”
“You’ve replaced 100 people—”
“84,” I correct. “Jones was 84.”
“ 84 ,” Lane hisses, venomous. “None of them died.”
“And you’ve only replaced like 8 or 9,” I say.
“11,” he counters.
“I lost Nessa to the same man who’d stabbed you,” I say. “And I almost lost you .”
He gives me a look. A look I have never seen before.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Look, I’m just saying I think Nessa would disagree,” I say. “Just
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