Puck, Marry, Kill (Dirty Puckers #2)

Dominic

Sitting in my truck in the parking lot, I stare at the pair of double doors like they’ve offended my entire family line, and snarl at the garish neon-green sign above them proclaiming “O’Neal’s” as though the double apostrophes are bullets straight to my brain.

To be fair, neither the sign nor the doors have done anything to me. It’s what they represent.

They’re the portal to this new phase of suckage that is my life. My life, which was going stellar until a few weeks ago, when I suddenly had to sublet my place, pack up my truck with most of my shit, and move to a short-term rental in a city where I don’t know anyone or anything.