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As long as I am.
It’s when I’m not that there’s a problem.
People see me and think screwing me over will be an easy gig.
People see him, and they know it’s not.
I may be “the brains”, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be the brawns.
Once upon a time, Miles Nolan wasn’t always around like he is now.
I had to defend myself from my old man.
He was great with a wrench.
In both good and not good ways.
Not Nolan, though.
He’d never do that type of shit to me.
For me?
Yeah.
He has.
Beating some asshole within a couple inches of his life with a tire iron because he tried to scam me out of four grand may have just been another Tuesday for that hard ass, but turning that rage on me?
No day that ends in y.
He’d rather die first.
I know that shit because he’s said it.
Truth?
So, would I.
Without a doubt, living and working with Nolan is the second-best thing to ever happen to me with my old man accidentally drinking windshield wiper fluid seven years ago being the first.
The sound of his old tow truck approaching diverts my attention away from the magazine I’ve been mindlessly turning the pages of while humming along to Franz Schubert and up to where he’s partially pulling into the empty garage with a vehicle, surprisingly, in tow.
Huh.
Maybe I’ll have something to do tonight after all.
His skewed parking and immediate exiting reveal to me two more unexpected things.
The first?
He’s pissed.
We’re talking half a bottle of whiskey, four beers, two cigars, fuck dinner I’m just gonna drink it tonight level of pissed.
I ain’t seen him this mad since the day he caught his stripper ex-girlfriend banging that priest on a Sunday between church services. She was definitely on her knees, but the good lord damn sure couldn’t make out what she says saying if you know what I mean.
The second?
