Buttercup Read Online Free
anxious. It was only a dream. A dream like all the others, 'cept this time I'll have my reality .
“Who’s Buttercup, boss?” Manny pressed.
“Drive.”
Manny silenced.
Silvio’s shoulders slumped. He eased back down in the seat. Road weary, the three men in his gang travelled in silence. This night was different. A shiver of anticipation gripped his gut and twisted it like a pretzel. Eventually, the burn for his Buttercup eased. It always did, eventually. But damn it, his dreams had never been that… real. She must be close.
“How goes it back there, Touchy?” Silvio mumbled, desperate for a distraction. A car chase would be nice right about now. He could go for blasting his frustration at those trigger-happy coppers that always wanted his freedom from state to state.
“Clear, boss,” Red answered for Touchy, his backseat companion.
Silvio’s gaze shifted to the rear mirror on the Packard. Touchy cast a steely look. Red had the annoying habit of speaking for everyone. Touchy didn’t take well to those liberties though. He found conspiracies in every unsolicited action, no matter the intent, when leveled his way. But thankfully, he wasn’t in one of his moods. Silvio had no patience for a backseat fistfight tonight.
He kept watching.
Touchy fingered the groove along the trigger of his shotgun. The grip rested between his legs, pressed hard into his crotch. Red shrugged off the glare. He put his hat over his face, dropped his head back and shifted down into the cool darkness of the backseat. “I say we make a stop at Moncrieff. Get off the road before sunrise. I need to take a piss,” said Touchy.
They would definitely make a stop, thought Silvio. But it wouldn’t be Moncrieff. Silvio smirked, his eyes trained on the dirt road. Bold bright light-beams cut down the darkness from out of the front pods of a silver-blue Packard with white wall tires and bullet holes peppered along the rear. It powered an eight cylinder V-12 engine near 80 mph down Route 36. The men were barely seen behind the opaque dust covered windows.
The Packard was barely heard as it coasted through the countryside, and that was the point. In fact, the ride would have been uneventful if it weren’t for the locusts.
Swarms fluttered in and out of the cornfields on starless nights.
Nasty critters on blind suicide runs. They torpedoed the windshield, leaving blots of yellow-greenish slime, legs, and antennae smeared across the pane. Manny hit the wipers, to no avail. They just kept coming. The bugs couldn’t necessarily be blamed. They were seduced out of the fields by the glare of lights from back road travelers: bootleggers, racketeers, bank robbers and gangsters. The quad at one time or another had been all of that and more.
Night travel was best for the business of Silvio ‘Bloodshot’ Garelli.
The press bestowed the name ‘Bloodshot’ upon him after a bank robbery in Mason County. It started and ended with a spray of bullets over the heads of terrified customers. The press reported that he carved his name with bullet spray into the safe to blast it open. Horseshit ! Not a single person took a hit in all the fun, and still they labeled him a killer because some bank manager up and died from a bad ticker when it was all done. Silvio had never killed a man that didn’t have it coming. This infamy I'm saddled with is all complete horseshit . When asked of his outlaw fame from bank robbing by his crew or the men in their circles, Silvio made it pretty clear that no crime was committed. He needed money like the rest of the country during these bleak times. The banks claimed to be empty but they had plenty, and he wasn’t too keen on asking for it.
He'd come up empty a few times. His men were losing faith. But the last ride had been it. He and his boys had hit the mother lode. The job was ace. His crew was with him all the way to Mexico. In the backseat was Red Lafferty, a lean second generation Irishman with hair so red it
“Who’s Buttercup, boss?” Manny pressed.
“Drive.”
Manny silenced.
Silvio’s shoulders slumped. He eased back down in the seat. Road weary, the three men in his gang travelled in silence. This night was different. A shiver of anticipation gripped his gut and twisted it like a pretzel. Eventually, the burn for his Buttercup eased. It always did, eventually. But damn it, his dreams had never been that… real. She must be close.
“How goes it back there, Touchy?” Silvio mumbled, desperate for a distraction. A car chase would be nice right about now. He could go for blasting his frustration at those trigger-happy coppers that always wanted his freedom from state to state.
“Clear, boss,” Red answered for Touchy, his backseat companion.
Silvio’s gaze shifted to the rear mirror on the Packard. Touchy cast a steely look. Red had the annoying habit of speaking for everyone. Touchy didn’t take well to those liberties though. He found conspiracies in every unsolicited action, no matter the intent, when leveled his way. But thankfully, he wasn’t in one of his moods. Silvio had no patience for a backseat fistfight tonight.
He kept watching.
Touchy fingered the groove along the trigger of his shotgun. The grip rested between his legs, pressed hard into his crotch. Red shrugged off the glare. He put his hat over his face, dropped his head back and shifted down into the cool darkness of the backseat. “I say we make a stop at Moncrieff. Get off the road before sunrise. I need to take a piss,” said Touchy.
They would definitely make a stop, thought Silvio. But it wouldn’t be Moncrieff. Silvio smirked, his eyes trained on the dirt road. Bold bright light-beams cut down the darkness from out of the front pods of a silver-blue Packard with white wall tires and bullet holes peppered along the rear. It powered an eight cylinder V-12 engine near 80 mph down Route 36. The men were barely seen behind the opaque dust covered windows.
The Packard was barely heard as it coasted through the countryside, and that was the point. In fact, the ride would have been uneventful if it weren’t for the locusts.
Swarms fluttered in and out of the cornfields on starless nights.
Nasty critters on blind suicide runs. They torpedoed the windshield, leaving blots of yellow-greenish slime, legs, and antennae smeared across the pane. Manny hit the wipers, to no avail. They just kept coming. The bugs couldn’t necessarily be blamed. They were seduced out of the fields by the glare of lights from back road travelers: bootleggers, racketeers, bank robbers and gangsters. The quad at one time or another had been all of that and more.
Night travel was best for the business of Silvio ‘Bloodshot’ Garelli.
The press bestowed the name ‘Bloodshot’ upon him after a bank robbery in Mason County. It started and ended with a spray of bullets over the heads of terrified customers. The press reported that he carved his name with bullet spray into the safe to blast it open. Horseshit ! Not a single person took a hit in all the fun, and still they labeled him a killer because some bank manager up and died from a bad ticker when it was all done. Silvio had never killed a man that didn’t have it coming. This infamy I'm saddled with is all complete horseshit . When asked of his outlaw fame from bank robbing by his crew or the men in their circles, Silvio made it pretty clear that no crime was committed. He needed money like the rest of the country during these bleak times. The banks claimed to be empty but they had plenty, and he wasn’t too keen on asking for it.
He'd come up empty a few times. His men were losing faith. But the last ride had been it. He and his boys had hit the mother lode. The job was ace. His crew was with him all the way to Mexico. In the backseat was Red Lafferty, a lean second generation Irishman with hair so red it
Readers choose
Jon Schafer
Daniel Abraham
Christina Dodd
Stella Cameron
Alicia Devine
Elly Griffiths
Jaye Wells
Virginia Franken
Mallory Monroe