Dark Sky (The Misadventures of Max Bowman Book 1) by Joel Canfield Read Free Book Online

we were at the point where we both saw pretty much everything coming. Luckily, what I was asking for wasn’t that big a deal on her end. I just needed her to open up a couple of documents from my folder of case files on my computer and text me the information I needed – which was the addresses of those two retired Army officers Davidson had asked me to retrieve years ago.
    “Sure. Sure, Max Bowman, I’ll do that shit for you. Only now – I get TWO nice dinners when you get home. And one of them is gonna be at the Gotham fucking Bar & Grill, what do you think about that?”
    My wallet began to silently weep. When the President came to Manhattan, he ate at the Gotham fucking Bar & Grill. When I went into Manhattan, I got a hot dog off the cart.
    “Okay,” I said, “but no appetizers.”
    “HAHAHAHA, you’re a comedian! Guess what, asshole? Appetizers AND dessert. Not only that, but also – dessert WINE .”
    “Okay, okay, okay.”
    “And – I WANT US TO BUY A DOG.”
    What? A dog?
    “I’ll think about it.”
    But I wasn’t going to. If giving her a key to my place had been the equivalent of digging my own grave, agreeing to co-parent a dog with her would be asking for the dirt to get shoveled over my face.
    Not that I actually related that charming metaphor to her. I didn’t want to hear more speculation on what other monstrosities my penis was capable of penetrating. Instead, I told her I missed her, said goodbye and put the phone back in my pocket, next to the burner given to me by Mr. Barry Filer. And actually, a part of me did miss Jules. I had to admit that to myself. I didn’t have much else in my life, and I kind of liked being around somebody who said “fuck” more than me. And she said it a fucking lot more.
    It took the entire length of our conversation for me to make it from the Banana Republic to my parking spot in the far corner of the lot. At which point I realized I never should have written off the blue Toyota. It had left me a message that was far from a friendly one; all four of my tires were slashed, leaving my rental resting completely on its rims. I dropped my Banana Republic bags and just stood there for a few seconds, staring blankly at the car. The thought that immediately leapt to my mind was that I was glad I bought myself the watch.
    According to that watch, it took about an hour forty-five to get a replacement car from the rental company. That kind of pissed me off, since I had checked every box and every insurance upgrade on the rental form – my new credit card could take the punishment, after all – so I expected some kind of superior service. But I forgot this was America and that ever since all of Mom and Pop’s little businesses went under, the corporations were fine with fucking over one individual customer. There were a few million others out there on hold waiting to give them money, why give a shit?
    At least I had things to do to pass the time while I was waiting. Jules had texted me the addresses, accurately and quickly as I expected – and she had even gone to the trouble of putting “fucking asshole” in between every other word. I liked the fact that she was willing to put that kind of time and effort into our relationship. The addresses were close to what I remembered – one in Kentucky and one in Missouri - which meant I could drive the whole trip and avoid any more cramped pain-in-the-ass flights. I liked a long drive – and it would give me time to think out my approach.
    Then the rental company finally showed up with my new car. We all agreed it was some damn teenager who ripped apart my tires and we went on with our lives. I got back on the I-64, then, when I got to Richmond, I took the I-95 north towards D.C. It would be a couple more hours, but some things had to be addressed before I continued west.
    10 miles outside our nation’s capital, I spotted a Hilton Ramada Holiday Inn whatever-the-fuck generic hotel.
    I pulled off the I-95, parked in the