Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
The way she said ‘cop’ made it sound like she was describing a slug.
“I’m not sure why it matters,” I said as I started to nervously twist the ring on my pinky finger.
My stepmother sure knew how to make my cortisol levels rise.
From the moment she’d come into my life at the age of seven, she’d taken the ‘mother’ thing over the top. Not only did I have a dad who would stalk my every move, my stepmother took over when my dad couldn’t.
She hated when she was the last to know things, too.
Such as finding out that I had a thing for a cop at the place my father watched over with the same diligence he watched over his child.
“You know how cops are, Maven,” she chided me, using the same tone of voice she’d used when I was a kid and did something she didn’t approve of.
“I know how you think cops are,” I agreed. “But not all of them are womanizers and players. Some of them, like the one who is starting to mean something to me, are really great. I don’t see Auden being anything but crazy devoted to the woman he decides to set his sights on.”
My stepmother narrowed her eyes. “You won’t date him.”
I frowned at her. “I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal. And why would it matter to you and Dad who I date in the first place? I can’t remember a single time y’all ever said anything to Scott about who he dates.”
She threw up her hands. “Boys and girls aren’t the same, and I’ve told you since you were a teenager that what’s acceptable for a boy isn’t always acceptable for a girl.”
Again, one of the stupid rules from my childhood that had never made sense.
Heck, even Dorsey had been able to do more things than I could. I’d been seventeen when I’d finally grown a pair and secretly got an Instagram and Facebook account.
I’d had to use my middle name and a fake last name to keep out of the sights of my father—who very much checked on a weekly basis to make sure that I wasn’t doing anything I wasn’t supposed to—i.e. getting a social media account.
I had to sign in on my friends’ phones, and eventually, I procured a secret phone and paid for my own plan to get around my father checking to make sure I wasn’t being a ‘bad’ kid.
“I realize that it’s a shock that I’m actually growing up and doing something outside of my wheelhouse,” I started. “But to be honest, what I do and don’t do stopped being your and Dad’s business the moment I turned eighteen and moved out of the house.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re being ridiculous.”
The rain started on the tail end of her words.
She pointed at her ancient Suburban and said, “Get in.”
Knowing I would have to deal with this now to keep her out of my hair at a later date, I decided to go with it.
I got into her passenger seat, and she started the beast up, then crossed her arms over her chest and said, “I want to talk to you about this.”
I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes at her.
“Then talk,” I said.
She put the vehicle into drive and pulled out onto the street.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Your neighbor was looking at me like I was a maniac,” she grumbled. “And I think better when I’m driving.”
Because arguing would be useless, I chose not to protest her driving and tapped my foot against the floorboard.
I waited for her to ‘discuss’ and wasn’t surprised when she immediately went into more bullshit.
“And Scott told me that your prospective cop boyfriend treated him poorly,” she proclaimed. “And another thing! You got a lawyer to deal with your father? Don’t you think a simple phone call could’ve solved that?”
Was she delusional?
“Are you living in the same planet as me?” I asked her. “Since when do you think that a simple phone call can solve anything with Chief Austin?”
Vickie narrowed her eyes at the road, then threw up her hands, making my heart skip a beat at her lack of safety.
Dr. Vickie Austin was a stickler for the rules of the road because of all the trauma victims she had to work on in her time in the OR at Dallas Memorial.
But she was acting weird today.
More jerky.
More accusative.
“Vickie, is something wrong?” I asked her.
“And you just had to move out of the house, then open a business that’s become so public just to spite your father’s rules,” she continued, acting as if I had never asked a question.
“I moved out because Dad was smothering me, and you let him,” I pointed out. “And that was years ago. Me opening a business was the next step. I worked for a bakery for years and years, and it’s always been my dream. Why would living my dream be a bad thing?”