Read Online Fool's Ride (The Jenkins Cycle Book 2) by John L. Monk - Free Book Online
Authors: John L. Monk
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tired themselves out, beating on him with short ineffectual punches. Then he’d flip his leg up around the guy’s neck and do this weird jujitsu thing and the guy would give up, screaming in pain.
“Hey look at that,” Brian said, coming into the room with a plate of sandwiches and a six-pack of beer. “Prescott’s watching sports. How you liking it, man?”
“Fun fun,” I said, flashing him a thumbs-up, one of the few gestures I could do that didn’t require raising my arms.
Brian said, “Made them myself. You want roast beef or baloney?”
“Both,” I said. “I’m starved. Thanks.”
Then, despite being a big guy who liked to shoot people at the nod of my literary agent and captor, he proceeded to feed me. I’ll give Brian one thing: he made a mean sandwich. I downed four total, taking little swishes of beer in-between, even though I didn’t like beer.
“You sure you don’t want more?” he said, casting an amused glance at the last two sandwiches.
As if sensing the very real danger of me saying yes , Jacob reached over and snagged one. There was one left. A baloney. But I could tell Brian wanted it, so…
“You go ahead,” I said. “I’m full.”
Brian smiled and said, “Don’t mind if I do.”
So there we were, three killers watching extreme fighting on TV, eating red meat and drinking beer. And out of nowhere, despite being lashed against my will to a wheelchair, I didn’t feel so lonely.
When you’re a dead guy, you make do.
After finishing his sandwich, Jacob hit pause and said, “Gimme a minute.” Then he walked out.
Brian watched him go, then said, “Hey, man, I want you to know: I appreciate you being cool about what went down yesterday. Lana made me check on that house we found you at.”
“That house?” I said, hoping against hope.
“Yeah,” he said, giving me a significant look. “As far as I’m concerned, nobody lives there. Cuz you cool. Maybe someday you’ll do me a favor. Know what I’m saying?”
Yeah I knew what he was saying: he was keeping Sandra and her family safe. My throat tightened and I’m sure my face flushed. Relieved beyond measure, I wanted to dance or cry.
“Thank you,” I said, not pretending at anything for once. With every fiber in me, I meant it, and I wanted him to know that.
Brian nodded. Cuz I was cool.
Seconds later, Jacob returned.
“Yo, Brian,” he said. “You and me in the gym, when Ernie and Lana are getting their freak-on, what do you say? Teach you a few moves.”
Brian frowned at the mention of freak-on , but it passed quickly. He gave me a final significant look and said, “Sure, man. Maybe I’ll teach you something, too?”
----
H ours later , after we’d sat through all of Jacob’s victories, Lana walked in dressed in a dominatrix getup. She wore black high-heel boots strapped up to her calves, with glinting chrome spikes sticking out in every direction. She was a big one for spikes—her patent leather corset pushed her small breasts up impossibly high, spearing the room with razor tips where the nipples should be. Her lips were dark maroon, almost black. Her nails, about an inch long, were arterial in their redness.
Instead of a cat o’ nine tails, she carried a bedpan.
Brian and Jacob threw each other knowing looks, like they had pressing business somewhere else, then cleared out.
“How’s my poor little patient doing?” Lana said, stroking my face lovingly. Gone was the nervous tension she’d shown tending to me upstairs in the bedroom. She was in her element.
“Just watching TV.”
“I have something far more entertaining in mind,” she said. “But first, we need to get you out of those clothes.”
“You think guys like me fall for lines like that?” I said.
Lana arched her neck, trying for seductive. Then she laughed, trying for throaty. But again, though beautiful in a technical sense, she didn’t seem sexy to me. She seemed tired, burned out inside, all ends and no candle. Furious at
“Hey look at that,” Brian said, coming into the room with a plate of sandwiches and a six-pack of beer. “Prescott’s watching sports. How you liking it, man?”
“Fun fun,” I said, flashing him a thumbs-up, one of the few gestures I could do that didn’t require raising my arms.
Brian said, “Made them myself. You want roast beef or baloney?”
“Both,” I said. “I’m starved. Thanks.”
Then, despite being a big guy who liked to shoot people at the nod of my literary agent and captor, he proceeded to feed me. I’ll give Brian one thing: he made a mean sandwich. I downed four total, taking little swishes of beer in-between, even though I didn’t like beer.
“You sure you don’t want more?” he said, casting an amused glance at the last two sandwiches.
As if sensing the very real danger of me saying yes , Jacob reached over and snagged one. There was one left. A baloney. But I could tell Brian wanted it, so…
“You go ahead,” I said. “I’m full.”
Brian smiled and said, “Don’t mind if I do.”
So there we were, three killers watching extreme fighting on TV, eating red meat and drinking beer. And out of nowhere, despite being lashed against my will to a wheelchair, I didn’t feel so lonely.
When you’re a dead guy, you make do.
After finishing his sandwich, Jacob hit pause and said, “Gimme a minute.” Then he walked out.
Brian watched him go, then said, “Hey, man, I want you to know: I appreciate you being cool about what went down yesterday. Lana made me check on that house we found you at.”
“That house?” I said, hoping against hope.
“Yeah,” he said, giving me a significant look. “As far as I’m concerned, nobody lives there. Cuz you cool. Maybe someday you’ll do me a favor. Know what I’m saying?”
Yeah I knew what he was saying: he was keeping Sandra and her family safe. My throat tightened and I’m sure my face flushed. Relieved beyond measure, I wanted to dance or cry.
“Thank you,” I said, not pretending at anything for once. With every fiber in me, I meant it, and I wanted him to know that.
Brian nodded. Cuz I was cool.
Seconds later, Jacob returned.
“Yo, Brian,” he said. “You and me in the gym, when Ernie and Lana are getting their freak-on, what do you say? Teach you a few moves.”
Brian frowned at the mention of freak-on , but it passed quickly. He gave me a final significant look and said, “Sure, man. Maybe I’ll teach you something, too?”
----
H ours later , after we’d sat through all of Jacob’s victories, Lana walked in dressed in a dominatrix getup. She wore black high-heel boots strapped up to her calves, with glinting chrome spikes sticking out in every direction. She was a big one for spikes—her patent leather corset pushed her small breasts up impossibly high, spearing the room with razor tips where the nipples should be. Her lips were dark maroon, almost black. Her nails, about an inch long, were arterial in their redness.
Instead of a cat o’ nine tails, she carried a bedpan.
Brian and Jacob threw each other knowing looks, like they had pressing business somewhere else, then cleared out.
“How’s my poor little patient doing?” Lana said, stroking my face lovingly. Gone was the nervous tension she’d shown tending to me upstairs in the bedroom. She was in her element.
“Just watching TV.”
“I have something far more entertaining in mind,” she said. “But first, we need to get you out of those clothes.”
“You think guys like me fall for lines like that?” I said.
Lana arched her neck, trying for seductive. Then she laughed, trying for throaty. But again, though beautiful in a technical sense, she didn’t seem sexy to me. She seemed tired, burned out inside, all ends and no candle. Furious at
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