Read Online Thomas Prescott Superpack by Nick Pirog - Free Book Online Page A

1 because they were the exact color of a lime Popsicle. After an awkward moment, she smiled, revealing she’d worn her retainer and her White Strips, and said, “Where’s your machete?”
    Machete? Oh, right. I’d written something in my letter about cutting his, now her , head off with a machete. It’d been a stress reliever at the time, even funny, but now it seemed a little over the top. “I left it in the car.”
    She laughed and her face creased in all the right places. I took this time to affirm I was here to give this person hell, not fall in love with them. I went over her bad qualities again in my head. Weasel reporter? Check. Big headed? Check. Money monger? Check. Nice rack? Check. Nice ass? Check . . . back later.
    My thoughts were interrupted when she said, “I knew you’d show up here today. Actually, that was the whole reason for this book signing. It was bait, Thomas Prescott bait.” She cocked her head to the side and asked, “Mind if I ask why you bit?”
    I told her the truth, “I wanted to make sure you were ugly.”
    She laughed again, and I think my knees melted into my shins. “Then you must be disappointed.”
    Not the modest type, are we? I crafted my response carefully, making a point not to say extremely. “Extremely.” Shit.
    She grabbed a copy of Eight in October . Not the one in front of her, but the one she’d been writing in when I’d first approached. I found myself say, “Alexandria is it?”
    She handed me the book. “Call me Alex.”
     
    Back safely in the Range Rover, I opened my fourth copy of Eight in October . There was a map on the inside cover, underneath of which, Alex had scribbled:
    1222 E. Amplewood Terrace. 8:30 Tonight. Bring wine.
    Uh-oh.

Chapter 10
     
     
    It was after three when I pulled into my drive. I hadn’t eaten anything all day and I had a craving for a breakfast burrito. They say you crave things for a reason; red meat when you’re low on iron, milk when your body is seeking calcium, and eggs when you’re in need of protein. I had another craving, but it wasn’t as easily remedied as walking a couple blocks. It was in Philadelphia, even Seattle, not in Surry Woods.
    The only thing on my mind on the walk to Little Benny’s Big Burrito Stand, Little Benny’s for short, was Alex’s invitation to dinner. If I went, I had another opportunity to lash into her for writing the book. If I stayed home, I would just be waiting for something to happen, which sadly, was starting to look like the three-legged horse in the eighth race with Ricki Lake for a jockey.
    When I first set out on my burrito pilgrimage, I’d been ninety percent in favor of not going to Alex’s for dinner. Now I was down to about seventy percent. My goal was to somehow get down to fifty-fifty and go to the, “old coin flip.” I wonder how many big decisions have come at the hands of the, “old coin flip?” I’m sure a couple wars were started because some idiot called heads. Tails, we sign the treaty. Heads, we nuke ’em.
    Didn’t people know you always call tails. Always.
    When I’d completed the round-trip, an elapsed time of twenty minutes, I found Lacy in the kitchen giving Baxter a bath in the sink. She heard me slide the glass door open and said, “How’d the book signing go? Did you give ’em hell?”
    I set the Little Benny’s bag on the kitchen table and said, “You mean; did I give ‘er hell.”
    Lacy stopped scrubbing the pug, who against the classic idiom, seemed to be enjoying the bath thoroughly. “Alex Tooms is a woman? No way. I wish I could have seen the look on your face. Oh, I would have given anything.”
    I took a burrito out of the sack, sat down at the small oak kitchen table, and said, “I’m still in shock.”
    Lacy sniffed. “Little Benny’s?”
    “Got yours right here.”
    Little Benny’s took precedence over Baxter and Lacy joined me at the table. After she’d taken a huge bite and sighed heavenly, she said, “Sooooo, drama at the