Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
“Please don’t leave.” I draw a sharp breath. As much as I hate to admit it, the anxiety in my tone is not only due to my plan to have him warm up to me in order to gain his trust, but also because I genuinely hate the idea of spending the next few hours alone.
He doesn’t respond, and I hear the door shutting and locking behind him.
I bang my head against the wall, letting the tears that’ve been threatening to escape loose. I’ve already been through so much, but I just have to pull through one more thing. I can take these guys down.
It’s only Stockton. I’m already so close to home.
Home.
I don’t have one, but I do have a place I can call my own. It’s called revenge, and I will seek it, find it and soak in it.
“Oopsie. Someone forgot to wipe down the windows.”
I’m on my knees, mopping pristine hardwood tiles. Looking up to the woman who had spoken to me, I throw the wet cloth I’m holding near an exotic plant she once told me was imported from Singapore and push to my feet.
“Yes, ma’am.” My acceptance holds more authority than her command. She knows it. What’s more—she fucking loves it.
“Or. . .” Mrs. Hathaway presses her elbows on the grand piano in her living room, its keys still virginal, having never been touched. She angles forward, offering me a perfect view of her plastic tits as she lifts one foot in the air and twists from side-to-side in her white mini-dress.
All I can think about is that she’s leaving marks I’ll have to clean afterwards. “You can come upstairs and help me pack for Tahoe.”
Ignoring her suggestion, I brush past her heading toward the shed outside where she keeps my cleaning tools, the squeegee included. I can still see her face in my periphery. It’s painted with pricey makeup and displeasure—both unappealing to my taste—and by the time I get back to the foyer, Mrs. Hathaway’s already deep into her plan B. She’s sitting on her upholstered gray leather sofa in nothing but a tiny black bikini.
“Should I take this or the leopard one?” She waves the printed bikini that’s clutched between her pink fingernails.
“Ma’am, I’d make the worst fucking stylist. I still wear the same pair of Dickies from when I was sixteen.” Fisting the squeegee, I walk straight to her floor-to-ceiling windows, dangling the wire of the bucket I’m holding. I’ve worked here since I was released from San Dimas, housekeeping and doing some light landscaping when Mrs. H’s gardener Eddie is out of town. Godfrey hooked me up with this minimum wage job. And even though it’s in Blackhawk—a good hour or so from Stockton—I can’t afford to pass on this opportunity. A felon with manslaughter on his record? I’m shit-lucky to have any kind of job, especially with a parole officer watching my every move.
And I need the money.
Bad.
I’ve never been bothered by my poverty. Haven’t known anything else. Where I come from, you inherit poverty the way you do your eye color or height. You can’t escape it, but you sure can ignore it.
No money, no pride, no problem.
Materialistic things do nothing for me. I’m a fugitive who escapes reality with a good book. This is the first time in my life I really need money, and I need it to survive.
It’s time to turn my back and leave Stockton as well as Godfrey’s watchful eye. Saving up is crucial so I can disappear.
For now, I have a place. I share it with a guy called Irvin and pay Godfrey pennies for the rent. But that’s the problem—relying on Godfrey Archer’s goodwill? Better to slit my own throat right fucking here.
Mrs. H is still eyeing my ass, eyes so heavy with desire she can barely keep them open. I feel the ache between her legs for her. Rich girls love bad boys. The tattoos, the attitude, the danger.
The hopelessness.
They want to fuck something dark and damaged, but always with a condom, God forbid our bleak reality would rub off on them.
Mrs. Hathaway built a fantasy in her head and cast me in the leading role. In that fantasy, I’m a beast, taking her from behind, going in dry, fisting her hair, spanking her until she purples, claiming her like a savage and leaving marks that’d confirm her grave assessments about my nature. I know that, because she’s not the only rich girl who’s tried to get some since I was released.
I may be a felon, but she’s a sexual harasser of the highest level.
When I’m done wiping her windows, I change from the swim trunks she makes me wear on my shifts to my usual attire. I stand in her drawing room (the fuck is a drawing room? I’ve no idea, but she keeps calling it that so I humor her) and she slaps cash into my palm.