Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 169272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
“Reed is being Reed. He’s been expanding his roster with lots of new artists. Globetrotting. And, of course, exploding every ovary in every room he enters. Probably, half the nut sacks, too.”
“Peter.”
I laugh at Mom’s shocked reaction, and she snorts in reply. Mom often pretends to clutch her non-existent pearls when I say something particularly outrageous, but she knows full well I grew up watching my father endlessly crack her up, oftentimes with jokes far dirtier than that one.
“I saw a little write-up about Reed in Rock ‘n’ Roll magazine,” Mom says. “They called him The Man with the Midas Touch.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, I saw that.”
“Did Reed like being called that?”
“He didn’t say so, but I’m sure he did. Surely, it’ll add to his mystique, which in turn will help his brand, which in turn will make him even more money. Plus, it’ll help attract even more women. Not that he needs any help with that.”
“Is he still dating a different supermodel or actress every week?”
“Nope. He’s up to two or three a week now.”
Mom tuts. “Such a cad.”
“There are lots of women who find cads extremely attractive, Mom, so he’s got little to no incentive to change his ways.”
“It’s a tale as old as time. Young women always want to tame the bad boy. I know I did.”
I scoff. “When did you ever want to tame a single bad boy? You dated the nicest human who ever lived since high school.”
“Yes, and your father was quite the bad boy back then.”
I cackle.
“He was!” Mom insists. “Your father was never worried about getting into trouble like the rest of us. He was funny and irreverent. That’s why every girl wanted him.”
“But he only had eyes for you.”
“That’s right.” Her voice is dripping with pride and love. And pain. Aw, Mom. I can’t imagine this “bad boy” story of hers is remotely accurate, considering what I know about my sweet, doting father. That man didn’t have a bad or mean bone in his body. But I’d never challenge my mother’s happy memories of my late father, no matter how skewed they might be. That’s all the woman’s got left of her knight in shining armor these days, after all. Her happy memories.
“Fresno is a great place to raise a family,” Mom says, out of the blue.
“Well, since I don’t have a family, that’s not a concern of mine.”
“It might be one day. I hope and pray?”
“I don’t know if they taught you this in school, but hopes and prayers aren’t where babies come from, Mom.”
“Oh, hush.”
I laugh. “If you want to live in the same city as me so badly, then move to LA. I keep telling you I’ve got enough money saved up to—"
“No, no. I have no desire to move to LA when Nora and all my friends, and my garden, and my book club, and my favorite aqua aerobics instructor, and all my students, are here.”
My heart pangs. Mom didn’t say it, but I know the top item on that list—the list of things keeping her in Fresno—is the dream home she shared with my father, where she still sees visions of him in every nook and cranny.
“Okay, Momma. I’ve got to get some work done. Do you need anything, big or small?”
“Nope. Thank you again for those flowers. That was so sweet.”
“You’re very welcome. Those weren’t your birthday present, you know. I’ll send another bouquet for that.”
“Or you could bring it in person. Nora and some friends are coming over for dinner and cake. I’d love for you to come, too.”
“It’s a date.”
“Really? Yay! I can’t wait to see you!”
“Same here. Love you, Momma. See you then.”
She squeals with glee. “I love you so much, sweetie. Don’t work too hard! Touch some grass! Feel the sun on your face!”
“I will. Bye now.”
We say our goodbyes and end the call, and it’s back to work I go. I check my messages and discover I’ve received a reply from my hacker buddy. Hallelujah.
Demon Spawn: Greetings. What can I do for you?
Me: Greetings. Are you still living in your van?
Demon Spawn: Yes, sir. I’m on an endless road to nowhere and everywhere, all at once.
Me: Sounds fun. Can I give you some paid destinations?
Demon Spawn: Anything for you, Bluebird. What’s up?
I send him (or her?) every piece of data I’ve gathered on Greg Smith aka Angus Wellborn and ask him to locate him and get physical eyes on him, whether at his mother’s address outside of Dallas, or at whatever address he can figure out from his own research.
Me: Unfortunately, I haven’t had much time to invest in the project myself. So far, I’m running into dead ends, probably because his name is so fucking common.
Demon Spawn: Gotcha. If I get eyes on him, are you thinking a drive-by scan or over the shoulder password peek, or something more elaborate than that?