Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“What’s the matter?” Rico asked, making me look up to realize he was studying me.
“I just don’t know what to get,” I lied.
I tried to tell myself it wasn’t a big deal, that I had the money on me to split the check. Even if my rational mind would be bitter about having to spend that much on one meal. I mean, I could get like thirty frozen personal pizzas for that price.
“Want me to order for you?” he asked.
I hated when men ordered for women. It always seemed condescending if not outright infantilizing.
But, for some reason, I found myself agreeing.
And then I swear the guy ordered half the freaking menu as my mind tried to keep a running tally of how much that would be.
Which was probably why, when the server walked away, and Rico turned to me to start a conversation, I nearly choked on my own spit when he led with, “So what made you decide to leave the Bronx?”
CHAPTER NINE
Rico
“How… how did you know I’m from the Bronx?” she asked, her face looking suddenly ashen as her eyes went round.
“You mentioned working at a bodega there,” I reminded her, having no clue why she was having such a strange reaction to a normal question.
“Oh, right. Right,” she added with a nod. “Duh. I just… wanted something new,” she said, each word just not quite ringing true. “I lived there my whole life,” she added. That part, at least, sounded honest. “And, well, Brooklyn is a lot more affordable than, say, Manhattan. You’ve always been from here?”
“Born and raised,” I confirmed.
“Never wanted to leave?”
My entire fucking childhood.
“Never,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t Brooklyn I had a problem with, it was my home life. Once I was old enough to really get out on my own, make my own money, build a new family, I really started to appreciate the area. And actively work to protect it. I’d never think of living anywhere else.
“What do you like so much about it?”
“I dunno. Think it has more of a sense of community than most of the other boroughs. Save for maybe Staten Island. Got a lot of culture. Great restaurants.”
“I haven’t really explored much,” she admitted. “I moved without looking into it. Spur of the moment decision, I guess. And I keep meaning to check out the local attractions than just… hanging out with my TV and frozen pizzas at home.”
“No friends? Family? Hobbies?”
“No. Not any I’m close to. And I never really had any free time to find any hobbies. Do you have hobbies?” she asked. “Not including video games,” she added.
“Haven’t played a video game since I was, dunno, fifteen or some shit,” I said. At that age, all that mattered was making money in the hopes of getting myself out of my house as soon as I was of age. “I don’t have hobbies either. Work a lot. But I have been working on fixing up my apartment for a while now.”
“Got any tips?”
“Having, you know, furniture, helps,” I said, getting a smile out of her.
“I did mean to go and get some end tables this week. But I got distracted. I’ve moved around a lot in my life. So I’ve kind of always gotten used to surviving with the bare essentials.”
“You planning on leaving sometime soon?” I asked.
“No. I mean… I hope not. I know it’s not the best neighborhood but I kind of like my apartment. Admittedly, though, eighty-percent of that might be because of Evander. He’s an asshole, but he’s mine. Sort of.”
“He’s a good cat.”
“Do you have one?”
“A cat? No.” I’d never even entertained the idea of getting a cat. A dog, maybe. There were advantages to having some sort of working line dog breed when you lived my kind of life. Another deterrent from people breaking into my place. If the locks failed. If the cameras weren’t enough to scare people off. But I also worked too much, and too odd of hours, to have a dog waiting at home to be walked, pet, fed.
“Really? You’re a natural with him.”
“Had cats when I was a kid. Half-feral hellbeasts,” I admitted, thinking of the way they’d swat me out of nowhere, completely unprovoked. How they chose not to use the litter box, but the floor right next to it, to do their business. How they would come right up on my pillow to violently throw up hairballs.
But my parents liked them because there were forever mouse, rat, or roach problems in our apartments and the cats lived to kill shit. Probably because I don’t remember my parents actually putting out food for them.
“I would argue that Evander is half-feral,” she said. “But he’s the most domesticated cat around you. Maybe his real owner is a man.”
“You should put a collar on him,” I said.