Read Easy Little Lick (Copperline #3) Online
Authors: Sibylla Matilde
Easy Little Lick (Copperline #3)
Copyright 2015, Sibylla Matilde
Photo by:
Sara Eirew Photographer
Cover models:
Jonathan Dumas
and
Valérie Benoit
ISBN: 1514312336
ISBN-13: 978-1514312339
Distributed by
Amazon
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. With the exception of the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles, and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
For my Brit Ho, Bethy boo. Here’s your Mofo.
Love you… even if you do listen to K-pop.
Songs that inspired Easy Little Lick
Other Novels by Sibylla Matilde
Lick:
A cool drum trick; a short and commonly repeated musical motif; something a drummer can nail whenever… wherever…
…even in his sleep.
I’d been home for about an hour when the yelling started. The neighbors were fighting.
Again.
My dad usually stepped in, trying to calm the man down while my mom called the cops. That’s just the kind of guy he has always been, tough and protective. Always looking out for those who needed help.
And she needed help. Badly.
They tried to get her to leave so many times. They tried to bring charges against him on her behalf.
But her responses were always the same.
He’s not normally like this.
He’s just drunk.
He doesn’t mean it.
So nothing was done. You can’t really help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.
My dad would intervene and protect her until the cops got there. The guy might get hauled off to the drunk tank or something. The fucker would sober up, and she would always take him back. Abuse can fuck with a person’s mind so badly.
From my open window, I heard the crash of broken glass. Things were escalating.
A heavy thud and another scream.
Fuck.
My mind raced. I didn’t know what to do. My parents weren’t home. I was stoned out of my gourd after I’d toked up in the park with my buddy Brannon while my brother’s band played for some society wedding.
Now, though, I wished I’d stayed sober. I wished I knew what to do. That dude next door was a big fucker and a violently mean drunk. I was a lover, not a fighter. Even more, though, the pot had me paranoid.
Not so much of the guy himself, since I wasn’t exactly a little fella. I was more worried that the cops would show up and bust my ass for drugs.
Fuck
, I had to do something, though. I reached for my cell phone.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” the dispatcher asked.
“My neighbors… they’re fighting. I think the guy is beating up his wife.” My voice hitched as I heard another scream. Another crash. “Shit,” I breathed, “someone needs to help her.”
“Stay with me, sir. What is your address?”
“Nine-oh-three Daly Street, and they’re in a blue house next door. Hurry,” I urged, peeking through my curtains. “It’s really bad.”
The shouting increased as the man raged on. A sharp crack, like broken wood, rang through the air. I heard the woman’s anguished pleading. Sobbing.
“Should I go help her?” I asked. “My dad would help her if he was here.”
“I’ll get someone there right away, but stay with me,” the dispatcher said, maintaining her calming tone. It sounded surreal and far away, especially with the panic and terror floating through my open bedroom window. “Do not engage.”