At the City's Edge Read Online Free PDF

fell again on the rows of bottles, the dusty bottle of Balvenie he’d noticed
     earlier.
    What the hell. The cork twisted free with a pop. Holding the bottle under his nose was like dissolving in a river of warm
     caramel. He poured two fingers, took another long inhale, sipped with his eyes closed.
    Damn.
Something to aspire to indeed.
    The thought came with a stab of guilt. The words had come out all wrong, again. Hell, he’d damn near
called his brother a coward. Michael sighed, reached for the phone. If he could get Jason back down here, he could apologize
     with a glass of single malt heaven, try again. He’d dialed the first couple digits when the front door opened, the bell rattling.
     The brilliance of afternoon framed a silhouette, big, balding, another man behind him.
    ‘Sorry,’ Michael said, setting down the receiver. ‘We’re not open yet.’
    The men stepped inside and closed the door.
    ‘I said, we’re not –’ But as they blotted out the light burning behind them, Michael Palmer saw who had entered his bar.
    The highball glass slipped from his fingers to spin, glinting, until it passed into shadow and shattered.

5. The Sexiest Porn in the World
    The girl was up, bustling around in the kitchen. Jason could still smell her perfume on the pillow beside him, something fruity
     and strong. Nice, though. His head ached a little with the remnants of last night’s bourbon, and he toyed with the idea of
     rolling over, grabbing another hour of sleep.
    But the sheets were muggy and close, and a fat-bellied fly buzzed around the room, dodging between the blades of the ceiling
     fan. Forget it. He pulled himself upright, leaned against the bare wall and watched the girl make coffee in the studio kitchen.
    She still looked good in the morning sun, a long, toned body. Pixie hair. A curvy faux-tribal tattoo led into pale blue pan
     ties that fit well, no droop. She opened one cabinet and then another, searching with quiet efficiency.
    Her name was… Jackie. Yes.
    ‘Filters are in the drawer.’ He rubbed his cheek, the skin sticky and full.
    ‘You’re up.’ She turned to smile.
    ‘Yeah.’ He pulled the sheet off and spun to the edge of the bed. The hardwood felt nice, cool. As he started to rise, pain
     spiked his belly. The muscle had a purple and yellow bruise, courtesy of the wrestler’s
rings. He winced, then smiled, remembering the rushing air as he’d jumped off the parking deck. With one hand on his gut
     and the other on the bed, he stood, glanced out the window.
Morning, world.
    Clark and Division. A weird-ass place to live. Lincoln Park to the north, all that prosperity: tree-shrouded sidewalks, little
     dogs yipping in graystone windows, the streets safe at three A.M. And south of him, the Loop, bristling with skyscrapers where
     the Lincoln Parkers made their inexplicable livings. Then here, smack in the middle, his corner. One block of ghetto-light
     carved out of the otherwise pristine Gold Coast, courtesy of the #70 bus connecting the Red Line and Cabrini Green. Twenty-four-seven,
     guys hanging out by the Currency Exchange, the sandwich shop. Late some nights he’d hear the hookers fighting, hollering the
     way only pissed-off black women could. But the studio was cheap and month-to-month, and that was about all the thought he’d
     put into it.
    The smell of coffee pulled him from his reverie. The girl had found two mugs and was pouring carefully. Jason never knew how
     to handle the morning after, if they were supposed to hug and kiss like a real couple. Her eyes were blue and steady, but
     she didn’t make any moves. He opted just to squeeze her arm as he took a cup, and she smiled, then pulled a chair out from
     the table and sat down. ‘I’ll just have one before I go.’
    ‘Take your time.’ The coffee tasted great, strong and bitter.

    She smiled again, then glanced around the kitchen as if she looking for a topic of conversation. There wasn’t much – a pantry
     with