Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
There were renters that came and went, of course, but such was the awesomeness of Oasis Square, most were long-timers, like me, who’d been there five years. In fact, I knew the waiting list to get a unit was a mile long, and I knew this because Luna, Jessie and Harlow were all on it.
We held complex-wide parties in the courtyard, and we definitely had extended family, like Luna, Jessie, Harlow, Otis, Lucia and Hunter (I’d asked Tito, he’d come twice, spoke minimally, and even if it was a nighttime event, never took off his sunglasses), who would come to our get-togethers, as would friends and family of others.
My apartment might be small, but the rent didn’t break my back, and I’d had plenty of time to establish my Urban Outfitters with shades of Anthropologie, large doses of Target and hints of Z Gallerie boho-girlie-glam-multiple-personality décor.
In other words, I loved my apartment too.
And as Cleo and I made our way up the switchback stairs to the upper level, I was looking forward to pouring a glass of wine, putting my feet up, and firing up my Kindle to maybe start reading that book about Kai Mason and Stella Gunn.
My steps slowed as I got close to my unit, however.
This was because light was coming through my shades, which, on the inside, were covered in pretty, rose-colored chiffon window panels.
I was relatively sure I didn’t leave my light on when I left.
It wasn’t late, just before eight, and considering it was September, I’d left when it was dark.
But still, not only did I care about climate change, I cared even more about my electrical bill, and I hadn’t left the light on.
Was Cap done with his business that took him away from our date that night?
And if he was, would he break into my house again in order to spend time with me?
Last night was extreme, and because of it, I could forgive his intrusion…once.
Him just helping himself to my place…hell to the no.
I was juggling Cleo’s lead with pulling off the strap to my purse in order to dig out my phone, wondering if I should hit up Bill and Zach to take my back when I went into my apartment (because it might not be Cap, and even if it was, a statement needed to be made). Or maybe head to Jacob, who worked crazy-long hours and endless days of construction sometimes, doing this so he could make enough money to take lots of time off in order to hang around and get high other times. But even if he was high, he could probably take care of business, because he might not be super tall, but he was solid and built.
These were my activities, and thoughts, when the door to my apartment opened.
A very pretty Black woman, who I guessed was a little older than me, had large bosoms, slim hips and long legs, and was wearing a white suit Olivia Pope would get in a bitch-slapping contest over, took one step out on her pencil slim, four-inch, patent-nude Louboutin heels, and asked, “Well, are you coming in?”
“Who are you?” I returned.
She walked my way.
I braced.
And unfortunately, Cleo took that opportunity to become one with her Labrador, so she was full body shakes due to her tail wagging and straining the leash to get a lick or two in as the woman approached.
She ignored Cleo but opened her white Birkin with black stitching, exposing the sumptuous red leather interior.
From it, she pulled a manila envelope.
She offered this envelope to me.
I didn’t know why (out of habit? shock? whatever), but I took it.
“Don’t call her Charlie. And don’t call me Bosley. I’m Clarice.”
And with that, she strutted away in the manner only a woman in Louboutins could strut, in other words, there was no better strut in the world.
I watched her go.
Cleo watched her go.
When she was out of sight, I dashed to my apartment, Cleo having no choice but to dash with me.
I closed the door, locked it, took off Cleo’s leash and hung it on the golden arch that was adorned with medallions shaped in the cycles of the moon with hooks under each moon.
I then went to my circular, glass-topped coffee table with the white cutaway panels underneath that supported a shelf, on which I displayed my Pucci coffee table book that had a hardback exterior of a Pucci print (and it rawked).
I dropped that envelope on the table like it could grow teeth and bite me.
Five minutes later, I had a glass of chilled white in my hand, and I was standing at the coffee table, staring at that envelope.
“Shit,” I whispered, rounded the table, sat on my pale-blue velvet, tufted-back couch, sucked back some wine, set it aside and reached for the envelope.
Cleo sat on the floor beside me and watched, panting, as I opened it and upended what was inside onto the table.