Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
It’s as though I got in the back of every line in the DNA department and the gods just threw whatever was left over my way.
Despite our lack of resemblance, my sister and I have been each other’s peanut butter and jelly our whole lives. Dad did his best at being a mom and a dad but truth time, he fell way short on both counts.
“I’ll make you a smoothie. Extra strawberries.” Brigid grins, releasing the Asana and turning toward the antique Frigidaire we repainted a bright teal blue when we re-painted the kitchen.
She gently shoos away Puddles, then Murphy, a black, fuzzy Dachshund mix who is always either in the kitchen waiting for scraps or bolting out the front door. We already have a two-hundred-dollar vet bill this month from him trying to chase down a low-riding Cutlass.
The refrigerator handle clunks as Brigid hums Let the Good Times Roll, pulling out a bowl of cut up strawberries, then soy milk.
She frowns, shaking the carton. “Dad didn’t get groceries like he promised.”
I screw up my face fighting back a sigh of disappointment. I’ve seen the past-due notices in the garbage can. One of them from Desert Shore Mortgage Company is of particular concern.
My dad has indulged mine and Brigid’s dream of bright lights and back-end royalties since we graduated high school this past May. Brigid is doing regular theater work, and with the commercial gig, I wanted to be able to say look, here’s a paycheck instead of look, here are the animals I helped rehome from the shelter this week.
And when I say re-home, I mean to our home.
I sniff as tension knots up my neck. We both know the grocery store is right next to a private poker club, so the appearance of food usually depends on if the cards are in his favor that day or not.
Brigid closes the refrigerator, fussing with the messy bun that secures her waves of otherworldly auburn tresses as anger bristles over my skin. Like our looks, we have diametrically opposed ways of dealing with our father. She’s more the head-in-the-sand while I’m more the get-your-shit-together.
Muffled noise from the living room draws our attention toward the hallway that connects the two rooms.
“What do you fucking want from me? Blood?” Dad’s voice hints at how desperate he is. “You were supposed to find me a new deal and you keep saying tomorrow or next week.”
“That’s all you have to say?” It’s my pseudo-Uncle Greg that replies.
Brigid nudges me with her elbow. “I knew he owed someone,” she whispers, tugging her black yoga pants out of her ass. “But Uncle Greg? You know he once broke a man’s legs for not paying him. Both his legs, Han. Both.”
I inch through the door, but Brigid shakes her head.
“Hannah, don’t. That’s Dad’s business—”
“Oh right,” I hiss. “And when the Sheriff shows up to kick us out that’s not our business either?”
She looks torn, but when I slip out she follows. We creep down the hall as the straining A/C overhead chugs and clunks, mixing with Greg’s hearty laugh.
“You owe me money and I’m supposed to get you the gig to pay me back?” Greg releases a hard exhale. “I’ll give you ‘til Monday.”
“How am I supposed to get twenty grand by Monday? I don’t have twenty bucks. Oh, hey…” Dad pauses. “You… you got a pack of smokes I can borrow?”
An awkward moment of silence follows as I imagine Greg rolling his eyes.
Then an incoming text pings. Two pings. Then another.
Brigid and I stand frozen in the dim light of the hallway where a smattering of our school pictures hang in a row down the wall. Dad only bought our school pictures when he was on a hot streak. So, about half the years are missing.
“Shit, Denny. You must have picked up a lucky penny today.” Greg finally breaks the silence with that heightened shrill they both get when the scent of money is in the air. “Just got a text about a guy I know. He’s looking for something particular.”
“What’s particular?”
More text tones, a few seconds of silence as my innards twist and the muscle above my left eye twitches.
Finally, Greg says, “He needs someone to play his daughter.”
Brigid arches an immaculately micro-bladed brow as I cover my mouth with my palm.
Someone to play his daughter.
Don’t think Dad can pull that off.
A fly buzzes by, sneaking its way through the small opening in the door.
“What’s the job?” Dad clears his throat, swatting at the fly that’s made a beeline for his nose.
“Easy money,” Greg answers. He dominates the room; a three-hundred-pound Lothario complete with open shirt and balding head. “Twenty-grand upfront, and twenty-grand on Monday once the deed is done. All she’s gotta do is pretend to be this guy Hawk’s daughter so that his mark believes it.”