Page 13 of Rest In Pieces
“Don’t worry. I think the whiskey seeping from his pores is repellent enough.”
I rummage in my pocket for my keys and pull them out with a flourish before they’re ripped from my hand. “Hey!” I try to grab the keys from Tinkerbell, but Amity blocks my way.
“You shall not pass.”
I grin. “Lord of the Rings? You a movie buff?”
“You could say that.” She smiles back. “Come on. Let me and my friend give you a ride home. You wouldn’t want us to worry about you lying dead in a ditch somewhere, would you?”
“I don’t drink and ride,” I say seriously. “I would’ve walked.”
“Well, now you don’t have to. Come on, big boy, let’s get out of here. You have a tab you need to pay or anything?”
I shake my head, groaning when I remember why I shouldn’t do that.
Tinkerbell sighs. “If he pukes in my car, you’re cleaning it.”
Amity leads me out of the bar with her arm around me, taking my weight like it’s nothing while I glare at Tinkerbell.
“You’re mean. She’s mean,” I say, turning to Amity.
“You’d be okay with her puking all over your bike?”
“No,” I concede.
She maneuvers me into the backseat of their car, and as I lean against the window, I close my eyes.
“Well, this isn’t how I pictured our first night here going.”
“And yet, picking up a biker isn’t the craziest thing we’ve done.” Amity laughs.
I want to ask her what the craziest thing is, but my mouth feels like it’s full of cotton balls.
“Hey, biker dude, what’s your address?” Tinkerbell asks, but I don’t answer. I don’t have the energy, and I can’t remember where I live right now anyway.
“Great, now we have a passed-out biker in the backseat. Shit, Amity. What if they think we kidnapped him to do nefarious things?”
“Nefarious? Word-of-the-day calendar?”
“Author, remember?”
What?
“Right. So, tell me, bestie, what would happen now if this were one of your books?”
“Depends on which end of the grayscale I’m feeling.”
I’m so fucking confused. I’d ask, but opening my mouth isn’t an option right now. Not if I don’t want to hurl.
“Grayscale? What the fuck is a grayscale?”
“It’s how I gauge what I’m going to write. Lighthearted love stories fall near the whiter shade of gray. And then you have the darker side, where anything goes—the kinkier, the better.”
“Okay, give me an example of each.”
“Hmm… okay. Light gray: we take him home with us because we can’t get his address. He sleeps it off, wakes up, falls instantly in love with you, cooks an amazing breakfast, and never really leaves.”
Okay… what the hell is happening right now?