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)
“That’s it? For forty-grand?” Dad’s voice approaches falsetto. “Hannah? Or—”
“Brigid. Brigid’s perfect. That look she has. It’s rich. Distracting but natural. And, a little bit…I dunno, like more of a pushover.”
Brigid screws up her face, her cheeks going a deep crimson, and even though I wouldn’t want the job, jealousy pangs in my chest.
It’s always Brigid.
Every. Single. Time.
“This isn’t an ask, Denny.” Greg’s voice hardens and my sister’s words come back to me.
Both legs.
“Don’t worry.” Dad slaps his palms together with a vigorous rub. “These community theater bullshit deals aren’t gonna cut it. Time she grew up a little. Both of them, for that matter. I know Hannah is trying but she’s gonna have to dump that volunteer gig because this house is filling up like Noah’s fucking ark. I raised those girls on my own and now, I gotta bring them back down to Earth. Brigid will do this. I’ll make sure.”
Heat rises through my core and blazes over my skin. He doesn’t even know who this guy is. Or how dangerous he might be. Or really anything besides some vague notion that there’s forty grand to be made. Brigid is a sacrificial lamb to the end game.
Money.
Always money.
Which is ironic since we never seem to have any.
“Don’t crush their dreams, Denny,” Greg says. “Brigid got a boyfriend?”
“Uh, why? What does that matter?”
Greg looks back at his phone and shrugs. “No reason. Guy just asked. Wants to be sure no jealous boyfriends are gonna show and fuck things up.”
“Okay, no. No boyfriends.” Dad’s momentary concern evaporates. “So, forty grand…”
I push by Brigid and through the door, throwing my hands up and tossing a disgusted glare at my dad, then Uncle Greg.
“Hannah Banana!” Greg bellows with that Tony Soprano charm, arms open. “Hug for your uncle?”
Brigid follows me in but stalls a few feet inside the door.
“The hug bus has left the station,” I say, with staccato sharpness as Greg’s mask of charm slips. I turn to my Dad. “We heard you two muffin heads. You don’t think Brigid should decide if she wants to do this? And, come on,” I press my fists to my hips, taking a long breath, attempting to restrain my temper. “What kind of name is Hawk?”
“It’s called a nickname, Hannah Banana Montana. You always take everything so seriously,” Greg says from his place beside the plastic chair under which sleeps my most recent furry acquisition from the shelter.
“Someone has to be serious in this family.” I look at dad who is inspecting his feet and pretending to cough. Apparently, I’m the only adult in the room, so I steady my breath and press my palms to my blazing cheeks, looking at Greg. “And don’t call me that. I hate that name.”
Brigid pulls her perfectly porn-plump lips into a tight smile as she meets my eyes. “It used to be funny.”
You’re not the one that got called Hannah Montana from second grade on.
Greg puts a hand over his heart then says, “You’re like family. I wouldn’t let anything happen.”
“Family doesn’t break family’s legs.” I huff, turning toward my sister for support. “You want to weigh in on this? It’s you they’re selling.”
“Nobody’s selling anybody and nobody’s breaking anybody’s legs. Let’s just calm down.” Greg closes his eyes on a horse style snort, his gold and diamond pinky ring glinting in the dusty streaks of sunlight peeking through the front shades.
My pseudo uncle stands silent with a flat look, his lips pressed tight, the shiny top of his head traversed by a pitiful amount of his comb over. He’s wearing a slick blue suit with a white shirt open at the neck. A thick rope gold chain with a crucifix is tangled in his exposed black jungle of chest hair.
Even at six feet three, he’s put a dent in some all-you-can-eat spreads for sure.
Dad comes over, grabbing my forearms. “Who knows, this Hawk might have LA connections. That would help out.”
You mean it’ll help you out.
I huff, shaking his hands away.
He swats at the buzzing fly which now has taken a strong interest in his forehead, then turns to Brigid. “This is your decision. Not mine. Not Hannah’s.”
Brigid tugs at her bun, then runs her hands down her face curling her shoulders forward. “Yeah. My decision.”
She gives me a helpless look, her atomic green eyes full of indecision.
When we were little, if we went for ice cream, or out to eat, she always waited for me to order, then said, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
“Please, Brigid,” Dad begs, using prayer hands and bent knees, looking more like he needs the bathroom than he needs the forty-grand. “It’ll be over before you know it. And you might even have a good time!”
“It’ll be over before you know it and you might have a good time…” I repeat in a mocking tone, adding, “Sounds like what everyone says about losing your virginity.”