Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Two things New Jersey definitely wasn’t:
Wild
Exotic
But what were my options? Go back to Duffy’s apartment and watch her fuss over work and salad dressings?
Then there were my friends. While I enjoyed their company, they also had their own lives. Said lives were boring, anyway, so sticking around during the daytime felt futile.
Somehow, I managed to stay out of the apartment until nine that night. By the time I went up the flight of stairs, I was sure Duffy was past her organic, healthy dinner, either working on her laptop in her room or hitting one of those late-night SoulCycle classes she was fond of.
I was about to slide the key into the keyhole when the door next to hers opened and a man in his late fifties emerged, a manila folder tucked under his arm. It was the man who’d opened the building’s door when I’d ambushed my fiancée the other day. Intense Asshole Guy.
He wore a seventies-style tweed jacket and a baseball cap and was about my height. A hobo GQ type. He took one look at me and groaned.
“You again. Tell me Duffy hasn’t moved in with her rebound.”
“Duffy hasn’t moved in with her rebound,” I said, deadpan, as I unlocked the door. “She moved in with the love of her life.”
Hey, why the fuck not? We needed to make this thing believable in case the government came knocking on this guy’s door. Plus, I knew Poppins would be horrified if she found out I’d said those things to her neighbor, and the banter alone was going to be the highlight of my day.
“‘Love of her life’?” The man rubbed the back of his ball cap. “She just broke up with her boyfriend. Plus, you’re definitely not her type.”
Was this guy competing for the Nosy Bastard Award?
“Are you writing her autobiography?” I pushed the door open with my shoulder. “Actually, don’t answer that. I’m going to respect her privacy and let her fill you in if she feels like it.”
If this man was creeping on my fake fiancée, I was going to for real strangle him.
“She will,” he confirmed, frowning at me like my very existence disturbed him. “In a couple days, when we have our weekly drinks. I’m Charlie.” He stepped forward to shake my hand.
“Riggs.”
“Briggs?”
“Without the B.”
His eyebrows shot up. “That’s not a common name. What does it mean?”
“No clue. Parents fucked off before I had a chance to ask.” I slid my hand from his before things got even weirder.
“Sorry to hear that.”
I laughed. “I survived.”
“Yeah. I can see.”
Was this building full of socially impaired people?
“Hey, wanna grab a pint?” He pointed downstairs. “It’s still a little light out, and your upstairs neighbor has a cello lesson until ten.”
“Nice selling point, but I’m gonna call it a night.” I was one step into the apartment when Charlie tsked behind me.
“Too bad. I’m wrapping up this documentary about Maasai Mara, and I need a professional eye to help me pick the film poster.”
I stopped. Glanced behind my shoulder. “And you know I’m a photographer because . . . ?”
“You’re holding a professional camera.” Charlie gestured to my shoulder. “And I’m not a complete idiot.”
That remained to be seen. Most people definitely fell into the idiot category.
Actually, going over someone else’s photos of one of Kenya’s most breathtaking wonders wasn’t the worst thing I could do with my evening. Especially when the alternative was bickering with the hot prude from hell.
“Yeah, okay.” I closed the door. “One drink.”
At the bar, Charlie and I ordered Carlton Draughts and went through the Maasai Mara photos. They weren’t terrible, but they weren’t groundbreaking either.
I pointed at one of the pictures, of an elephant standing next to a tree, dwarfing it. “This is your cum shot. Background’s insane. The desert looks like Mercury, but it could use some work.”
It could’ve been better if the photographer had used a Canon 100–400mm. The filter was all wrong too. Charlie propped an elbow against the sticky bar, tapping the photo.
“See, it was my favorite, too, but for a completely different reason.”
“Oh yeah?”
“If you look carefully, the elephant looks like it’s crying.”
I squinted, paying better attention to the photo. The elephant did look like it was crying.
“You’ve been making documentaries long?” I eyed him, taking a pull of my beer.
“Long enough to call it a job and not a hobby.” He laughed easily. “For a couple decades now. But I started out late, and only because I ran out of money.”
“What’d you do before?” I asked.
“Older, affluent women, mainly.” His hand shook as he gathered all the photos scattered on the bar. Was he an alcoholic?
I nodded. “It’s a hard knocks life out there for an aging fox.”
“And you?” Charlie eyed me. “You’ve been a photographer long?”
“Since I graduated from boarding school.” I fidgeted with my coaster, wondering idly if my fake fiancée had more lingerie like I’d seen the night she walked in on Gretchen and me. “I knew academia wasn’t for me and wanted to see as much of the world in the least amount of time. We never know when we’ll drop dead, right?”