Deadly Little Sparrow (MAFIA BOUND #1) by K.M. Neuhold EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: K.M. Neuhold
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 6.6 MB
- Price: Free
XAVIARO
SOME NIGHTS NOTHING FEELS real. The burn I’m expecting on my
tongue when I toss back my whiskey is deadened. The noisy chatter in the
bar sounds muted, like I have cotton in my ears. Everything is numb.
Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, my brain just turning the volume down on
everything to keep it from getting to be too much. Or maybe it’s just the
opposite. I’ve fried my senses and now I can’t feel a damn thing.
I drag my fingertips along the smooth glass, watching the ice melt on
the bottom. It’s about as fascinating as watching paint dry, but I can’t be
fucked to look away. There’s nothing more interesting to see in this damn
bar anyway. I’ve been coming to Death & Company a few times a week for
at least ten years. If barstools could develop ass grooves, this one would be
perfectly shaped to my glorious, rock-hard posterior. I don’t need to look up
from my drink to know where every spot of peeling wallpaper is or that
there are cobwebs on the lights that hang over the tables in desperate need
of a deep clean. Even with my eyes fixed on my slowly puddling ice cubes,
I know that Sid, the bartender, is doing that thing where he nervously taps
his fingers against his thigh while he sends deadly glares at the customers
most likely to get out of line.
Not that he needs to worry about anyone causing trouble as long as I’m
sitting here, nursing my one drink. He doesn’t bother to offer me a refill
because he knows I won’t take it. One drink is just enough to settle my
brain for the night, so I’ll be able to sleep. Two drinks and I’ll be tipsy.
Even tipsy is too out of control as far as I’m concerned. Not that giving up
control is always a bad thing. It’s all about context, and let’s just say that I
don’t trust whiskey to respect my safeword.
I drag my tongue along my bottom lip, vaguely aware of the salty flavor
of sweat mixed with remnants of whiskey without truly tasting it. In the dim
light, my gaze snags on the red-brown color of dried blood crusted in the
bed of my thumbnail. I curl my index finger over to pick it loose. There’s
no tenderness or wound underneath, so it must not be mine. Murder is
messy business. A stray drop of blood here or there is just part of the job.
It’s better than the time I found little bits of brain crusted onto my favorite
Italian loafers. It took me ages to break those damn shoes in and they had to
go straight in the trash. I wanted to fish that fucker out of the river and kill
him all over again for costing me my favorite shoes.
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