Slacker Jon Reagan often challenges his life expectancy since
he and his best pal, an autistic genius, partnered with a couple of bounty
hunters. His participation in the dangerous stuff exploded, like his life. The drama
snagged him a sexy FBI agent girlfriend, but he promptly got her shot. He’s
been beaten to a pulp and tested his Kevlar far more than is wise, enough his
partners often mumble, “Bullets love you.” When he thinks karma may cut him a
break, more of the same piles on when family skeletons and a new load of
disasters slap him aside the head. He faces a life decision. Odds don’t favor
him living to make it.
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Greetings. On second edit pass. Are you getting excited for the release?
“Not a good idea,” I said. “For
many reasons. What we need is a boat.”
Pow. A physical force may have
clubbed me in my chest. The inside of the cab flashed neon bright. Or maybe
that was a neuron firing, or I was having an aneurysm. I blinked hard to clear the
after-glow. Could an idea really hurt that much? Must be why I try not to think
Michael was grinning at me.
“From the mouth of fools.”
Whoop, whoop. I finished the draft of SEEker 3
Wednesday. (Spins around twice and performs the splits).
Jon and Amelia shopping for a suit:
I hoped for pinstripes. Don’t
bigshots wear pinstripes? Figured basic black was boring. But she gave me a
look when I curled my lips up. She said the stitching was adequate. Wool, silk
blend. Light enough for Tampa weather. There is no clothing light enough for
She chose a tie for me too.
Smart girl. I don’t own a tie, which she probably assumed. Shoes. I hadn’t
thought about that. My hikers probably would have clashed. I hated what she
selected. But she gave me that eye. She found black socks. I grimaced when she
picked up a package of underwear. Briefs. Oh–my–God. Really? She said it was
obscene to go commando in a suit.