Read Online Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) by Mary McFarland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary McFarland
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like h e’ s royalty.
“ But that will change ,” I say ,“ before I’ m done . ” Kings are born to be murdere d— crucified!
I smile at the decrepit old couple in the booth next to mine, right behind the fake ficus. “ Hello ,” I say, bigass smile spreading across my face. The y’ re gumming an impossible mountain of pancakes and looking perplexed. “ Bet I know what yo u’ re thinking . ”
Why is the young man chatting us up? Who in fuck is he?
Good question. I snicker. If only they knew wha t— no, if only they knew wh o — I ate for breakfast. Not pancakes, damn sure.
“ Sorry, young man, do we know you ? ”
They frown when I squeeze deeper into the ficu s ’ leaves. Gotta hand it to them. It is an odd move. They probably wo n’ t finish those pancakes in this millennium. “ Ca n’ t eat your pancakes and have them, too ,” I snigger, jumping when someone drops a glass.
I hate noisy places like this, but cops spend a lot of time in restaurants and bars, which makes it a fun challenge to keep tabs on my detective-kin g’ s every move. People talking and laughing does n’ t distract Detective Hawk s ’ focus. I’ m guessing it makes working in places like Arne e’ s easy for him. As for me? I prefer dark, private spaces. And no people.
“ People bring out the worst in me ,” I tell the old couple. “ Make me want to dissect a kitten while i t’ s still breathing. Kiddin! I had you going, did n’ t I ?” I say, watching the old fucks tuck napkins into their plates and toddle to their feet to leave.
But this morning, Arne e’ s nois e— the breakfast chaos, the clatter of silverware and relaxed chit-chat of the breakfast clubber s— works out great for me, too. I t’ s perfect cover.
Breaking off the conversation I’ ve started with mom and pop, I squeeze from my hiding spot and crane my neck. Shit! Here comes the blonde cop. She thinks sh e’ s queen of the world, or what? I watch her sauntering toward me.
“I’ m going to freshen my face, Aidan ,” she calls back to him over her shoulder. Wink, wink, she goes. Repulsive! Sh e’ s not on my most-wanted list, but I’ d like to kill her just for shits and giggles.
“ A gal never knows when mister right might come along ,” she tosses in.
Sh e’ s joking, I hope?
Hawks says to her, sounding surly ,“ Hurry up, we gotta get busy . ”
She slips off before he can stop her. Sticking him at the register with the bill, she lopes straight for me, she-wolf on the prowl for blood. I bet I could help her find some, plenty of it.
“ Yo, buddy ,” several diners yell, waving at Hawks. Friends. All his friends. H e’ s such a popular fucking guy. I take careful note of their faces, their features and expressions. The ones yelling are some of Cincinnat i’ s amateur blues musicians he hangs out with evenings. I know because I follow him home, to work, everywhere. I’ m that damn sneaking. H e’ d better know: I’ m not one of the usual punks he arrests.
I edge farther out around the ficus for a closer peek.
“ Come on over here, bro. Join us ,” the blues brothers urge. What would it feel like to have so many friends, so many you meet them everywhere you go? In restaurants. At charity balls, galas for the uber rich.
“ Lucky fucker ,” I mumble, hating every dick born with a silver spoon in his mouth. What would it be like to be rich? Not to have to worry about your next meal, or where yo u’ re spending the night? “ Lucky fucking detective-king. Made to be murdered . ”
My language sends pops digging for his wallet. He and momser scramble up from their booth fast as their creaky bones allow.
“ Aidan? Hey, son. Over here ,” someone, a new voice added to the conversational mix, chimes.
H e’ s Campbell Count y’ s coroner, Doctor Smalley. I keep tabs on him, too, thanks to Google,
“ But that will change ,” I say ,“ before I’ m done . ” Kings are born to be murdere d— crucified!
I smile at the decrepit old couple in the booth next to mine, right behind the fake ficus. “ Hello ,” I say, bigass smile spreading across my face. The y’ re gumming an impossible mountain of pancakes and looking perplexed. “ Bet I know what yo u’ re thinking . ”
Why is the young man chatting us up? Who in fuck is he?
Good question. I snicker. If only they knew wha t— no, if only they knew wh o — I ate for breakfast. Not pancakes, damn sure.
“ Sorry, young man, do we know you ? ”
They frown when I squeeze deeper into the ficu s ’ leaves. Gotta hand it to them. It is an odd move. They probably wo n’ t finish those pancakes in this millennium. “ Ca n’ t eat your pancakes and have them, too ,” I snigger, jumping when someone drops a glass.
I hate noisy places like this, but cops spend a lot of time in restaurants and bars, which makes it a fun challenge to keep tabs on my detective-kin g’ s every move. People talking and laughing does n’ t distract Detective Hawk s ’ focus. I’ m guessing it makes working in places like Arne e’ s easy for him. As for me? I prefer dark, private spaces. And no people.
“ People bring out the worst in me ,” I tell the old couple. “ Make me want to dissect a kitten while i t’ s still breathing. Kiddin! I had you going, did n’ t I ?” I say, watching the old fucks tuck napkins into their plates and toddle to their feet to leave.
But this morning, Arne e’ s nois e— the breakfast chaos, the clatter of silverware and relaxed chit-chat of the breakfast clubber s— works out great for me, too. I t’ s perfect cover.
Breaking off the conversation I’ ve started with mom and pop, I squeeze from my hiding spot and crane my neck. Shit! Here comes the blonde cop. She thinks sh e’ s queen of the world, or what? I watch her sauntering toward me.
“I’ m going to freshen my face, Aidan ,” she calls back to him over her shoulder. Wink, wink, she goes. Repulsive! Sh e’ s not on my most-wanted list, but I’ d like to kill her just for shits and giggles.
“ A gal never knows when mister right might come along ,” she tosses in.
Sh e’ s joking, I hope?
Hawks says to her, sounding surly ,“ Hurry up, we gotta get busy . ”
She slips off before he can stop her. Sticking him at the register with the bill, she lopes straight for me, she-wolf on the prowl for blood. I bet I could help her find some, plenty of it.
“ Yo, buddy ,” several diners yell, waving at Hawks. Friends. All his friends. H e’ s such a popular fucking guy. I take careful note of their faces, their features and expressions. The ones yelling are some of Cincinnat i’ s amateur blues musicians he hangs out with evenings. I know because I follow him home, to work, everywhere. I’ m that damn sneaking. H e’ d better know: I’ m not one of the usual punks he arrests.
I edge farther out around the ficus for a closer peek.
“ Come on over here, bro. Join us ,” the blues brothers urge. What would it feel like to have so many friends, so many you meet them everywhere you go? In restaurants. At charity balls, galas for the uber rich.
“ Lucky fucker ,” I mumble, hating every dick born with a silver spoon in his mouth. What would it be like to be rich? Not to have to worry about your next meal, or where yo u’ re spending the night? “ Lucky fucking detective-king. Made to be murdered . ”
My language sends pops digging for his wallet. He and momser scramble up from their booth fast as their creaky bones allow.
“ Aidan? Hey, son. Over here ,” someone, a new voice added to the conversational mix, chimes.
H e’ s Campbell Count y’ s coroner, Doctor Smalley. I keep tabs on him, too, thanks to Google,
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