Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 126154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
“It’ll become second nature after a while. Everything about Mr Henley becomes second nature after a while.”
I can’t believe I’m really here, standing inside his house. His actual house, where he eats and sleeps and showers. I spin on the spot, trying to memorise it all, every little detail – the red-tiled floor, the leafy plant at the bottom of the stairs, the wrought iron balustrade climbing to the upstairs landing. There’s a table by a low window, on it sits his bottle of whisky, and next to that is a single glass tumbler, and the antique inkwell Cindy told me about. I feel heady at the sight of the Insignia cigarette packet.
And then there is Brutus.
His growl is absolutely terrifying, a horrible low snarl behind me. The hairs on my arms stand on end, and I take a breath before I face him, turning slowly towards what looks to be the kitchen doorway.
“Don’t walk away from him,” Cindy hisses. “Hold your ground.”
Easier said than done.
Brutus really is a brute. He’s big and black, some kind of Rottweiler cross from the looks. But shaggier. Meaner. If that’s possible.
He’s got a big scar under his right eye, and his lips are curled back, showing some monster teeth.
“Hey, boy,” I say, and he growls all the louder.
I’m relieved when Cindy comes to my side, and she talks to him like a baby, as though she’s not scared, even though she’s as white as I must be. “Fish sticks,” she whispers. “Give him a fish stick.”
I fish in my handbag for the packet, and his ears twitch at the rustle. I pull out the treats, tear into them with shaky fingers.
“Throw one,” she says, but it’s not my game plan.
I’m in. Totally. All or nothing.
Come on, boy. Let’s be friends, right? Please let’s be friends.
I step forward and drop to my knees and Cindy grabs my shoulder, curses that I’ve got a fucking death wish, but I shake her off. Edge closer. A stinky dried up fish treat in my outstretched fingers.
“Hey, Brutus. Do you want this?”
He’s still growling, and I’m totally shitting it, but I force that down and take a breath.
“Hey, Brutus. Good boy. Come on.”
“You’re fucking batshit,” Cindy tells me.
Yes. Yes, I am.
A flash of panic as Brutus comes toward me, and it takes every bit of steel not to get to my feet and bail a retreat. He sniffs the treat in my fingers, his face so close to mine. And his breath stinks. It really stinks. Enough to make me splutter.
“Geez, boy, you’re quite a honker.” I dare to laugh, smiling with my face in his, that gross bit of fish wedged between us like a peace offering.
It feels like that dog is staring right into my soul, his big dark eyes so cold and mean. I feel like he can see everything, and that’s good, because there’s no way he’ll be able to look inside me and not see how much I want to be his friend.
I really want to be his friend.
Because I love his owner. I love his owner so much it takes my breath.
And I’ve worked so hard to get here, given everything to get here.
“It’s for you,” I whisper. “Come on, Brutus, take the yummy treat.”
Cindy gasps as he actually does take it. He takes it gently, right from my fingertips, then sits back on his haunches and crunches it with a big slobbery gnashing of teeth.
I get to my feet slowly, very slowly, but he doesn’t seem that interested, just finishes up his treat and drops to lay on the floor with his head on his paws.
“Fuck me,” Cindy says. “Do you moonlight as Cesar fucking Millan or something?”
I shake my head. “I just want him to like me.”
“No shit. You could’ve got your face bitten off.”
But I didn’t. The relief feels amazing.
“So,” I say, before my confidence burst fades. “Tell me everything about Mr Henley.”
She smiles. “Everything?”
I nod. “Everything.”
“I’ll talk as we work,” she says, gesturing to the kitchen.
I wipe down Mr Henley’s gorgeous granite worktops as Cindy cleans out the inkwell. One solitary cigarette butt. That’s all there is.
“He really is magnificent,” she says. “If you get to see the corporate suite reception on floor ten, you’ll see all his legal awards lining the main corridor, Mr Henley senior’s, too.”
“He’s the best,” I say, “I mean, I know that. I wanted to be a criminal lawyer myself.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Shit. What happened?”
I shrug it off. “Life.”
She shrugs back. “Cool beans. Anyway, he’s incredible. He’s smart, observant, totally demanding of perfection. For real make sure you do a good job in here, because if there’s so much as a fingerprint on a candlestick he’ll notice it. Well, he would have done.”
“Would have?” I slow down my scrubbing to look at her, and she’s dithering, weighing me up. “Please,” I say. “I need to know this stuff.”