Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
For a moment I wonder if I’m still dreaming because I feel like I fell back in time forty years. But when I go over to the window and use a pen from the little table to push the disgusting curtain to the side, everything appears to be on the up and up. The trucks passing by on the snowy mountain road are modern, at least.
I glance down at the pen and read the logo stamped on it. White River Cottages. White River, Idaho.
Cottages? That’s a stretch.
I chuckle a little—because this is just how shit goes after the blood lust—and pick up the note.
My dearest Ryet,
I left you a duffle and a truck. If you require anything else, call me.
Talk soon,
Paul
Well, at least it wasn’t personal. I crumple up the note, toss it in the trash, and find the duffel on the other side of the bed. He left me two sets of clothes—jeans, flannel, thermal shirt, socks and those black boxer briefs that he knows I hate.
They really highlight your assets. I can hear his voice saying that in my head.
Like I really need an image of him staring at my dick in this moment.
I put one set of clothes on, then find the truck keys on the windowsill, plus another note, this one more casual than the first. FYI, it says, you work here now. You’re the new caretaker. The woman at the front desk is expecting you at nine AM. She’s kind of a bitch, so don’t be late.
Next to the keys is a phone. And in the phone is one contact number.
His.
As if I don’t know his number.
I don’t want to call. He did all this to make me call, so I really don’t want to call.
But I’m not staying here. And this was a direct order, so… like it or not, I have to call and sort it out.
I press the contact. He picks up on the first ring. “Good morning, sunshine. How did you sleep?”
“What the fuck is this place?”
“I just bought it. It’s a mess, as you can see. Clean it up for me. Get it ready for the summer tourist season. Fishing and whitewater rafting. That’s what this place is about.”
I’m so annoyed. “Why the fuck would I stay here, Paul? I’m looking for your fucking feeder, remember?”
“She’s disappeared. The Guild has shuttled her off somewhere. I can feel the emptiness. There’s nothing we can do but wait for the next mistake. So while we wait, I would like you to get this place up and running. Bookings start Memorial Day weekend. Redo everything. And I do mean everything.”
Then he hangs up on me.
I throw the phone across the room and it smacks into the aged brown paneling, leaving a dent.
This is great. Just fucking great. Now I’m stuck in Idaho for who the fuck knows how long. He did this on purpose. I’ve heard of White River. It’s only a couple hours away from the Montana compound. He wants me close.
This isn’t even that unusual. He’s done shit like this before. But it’s when he’s needy. And the way he treated me in Miami, not to mention this letter and phone call, doesn’t conjure up images of neediness.
So what the fuck is he doing now?
The phone buzzes an incoming text across the room. I walk over and pick it up.
It’s eight fifty-five. I’m telling you, she’s a bitch. Do not be late.
I shove the phone into my pocket and grab the keys to the truck—which, now that I look at the keyring, also has another key attached. A key that has ‘A-1’ stamped on it. And when I open the cottage door and look at the outside, it matches.
This shithole room is my new home.
I close the door, lean into the bitter wind, and head towards the office. When I get there, I find a young, blonde woman pacing the disgusting lobby.
“Finally!” She stomps her foot. Actually stomps her fucking foot. Like she’s five years old and doesn’t want to eat her vegetables. “You were expected at seven.”
I close the door behind me to block the weather. “Well, I was told to be here at nine.” I point to an old analog clock hanging on the wall. “And I’m one minute early.”
“Who cares. Here is what I expect and when I expect it.” She hands me a piece of paper with a single-spaced list. Number one is: Remodel my whole apartment. She gives me two weeks to get it done. ‘My apartment’ meaning her apartment, not the shithole room I’m staying in.
She taps the page with a long, purple fingernail. “I need it ready immediately. I’ll be at the hotel on Route 121. But that place is as gross as this one, so two. Weeks.” She snarls this at me, then turns on her heel and heads for the front door.