Jerome
MY SMALL SPORTY car lifted as I removed the bag of dirt from the trunk.
"Wimp," I told it, giving it the side eye. If I planned to be a full-time resident of Pelican Bay, I needed something different.
A Jeep or a truck. I'd seen plenty of trucks in the small town, but I wasn't sure I was a truck guy. In New York you wanted speed and curves and anything that cost a ridiculous amount of money. In my new part of the country, they respected function and practicality.
I balanced the bag of dirt in one hand and used the other to close the trunk, noticing a smear of dark brown on the side of my three-thousand-dollar suit—something else there weren't that many of in Pelican Bay. There had to be a rip somewhere in my bag of worm poop and now I probably ruined the whole suit. Wonderful.
