17
Ryker
Friday morning, I grabbed my mail from the previous couple of days while slugging down my first cup of coffee. The cool morning air filled my lungs, waking me more than the damn caffeine. Birds tweeted their happiness at the rising sun, but I scowled.
Amid the pile of junk and bills was a card with my name and address perfectly printed on the front—handwriting I recognized.
Fucking Martínez.
I tossed aside the mail and set my coffee down before ripping the envelope open. Not bothering to read the fancy script, I scanned to the bottom of the card, affirming what I’d guessed.
Martínez didn’t give two shits about my mom—he’d told me in Dunks he’d heard she wasn’t doing well and hadn’t inquired over her health or the stage four lung cancer she’d been diagnosed with a couple mont
