Page 85 - Self Talk
P. 85
The flashlight landed on his forehead. He groaned and fell on the floor.
“What the fuck's goin on?” he muttered as I jumped over his legs and felt my way up the stairs. Joe and Tony had left their corner table and were behind the counter rifling through the cash register drawer.
“Hey, you promised, no money,” I screamed.
“Cool your jets, Carla. The beans are bagged and on the bikes. It's time to ride,” Tony yelled, slamming the
cash drawer.
