Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Kyle pins Kathy with a hard, steady, frosty glare. “Mrs. Wilson, my guys will be taking their allotted thirty-minute lunch and can do so anywhere they’d like as they are off the clock for that time. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the state’s labor board.”
With that, Kyle twirls a finger in the air, signaling for us to gather up, and he begins walking. I stay at Kyle’s side, with Dwight and his guys following, and Wayne bringing up the back of our train as we go out of Kathy’s yard, into mine, and to the tree. The whole time, Kathy is shouting at Kyle to get back to work and to get back over here, and some other blubbering, angry nonsense with a lot of pointing and arm flailing toward her pool.
When she realizes no one is paying her any mind, she slams her door so hard that it rattles in its frame.
My heart is racing as the guys all settle in the shade. “She’s gonna make your life hell for that, you know that, right?” I tell Kyle.
He shrugs, seeming completely unaffected by Kathy’s tantrum. “She can try. I’m more worried about her making your life hell.”
He cuts cold eyes toward Kathy’s. I glance over to see that though she’s closed the door, she’s still glaring out the window at me, and I know he’s right.
“I’ve already taken her on at her worst and won. Now, I just have to keep reminding myself that I don’t look good in orange and the food in prison sucks.” I whisper it like it’s a mantra to keep me from stomping over there and offering to go at it with Kathy again even though I can’t afford that, mentally or financially.
“You could cook for the whole prison,” Kyle suggests, his mouth full of pasta and his smile wide. “You’d be the safest person there because no one fucks with the chef.”
“You did,” Zeus murmurs, and Kyle whips his head around.
“Watch it, Preston,” he warns, pointing at him with his plastic fork.
But it’s good-natured teasing and in the end, I laugh along with everyone else because Zeus isn’t wrong. Kyle did fuck the cook, and I fucked him right back.
As the guys start eating, moaning and proclaiming how delicious it is, I get back to work, running more orders out front. It’s not until fifteen minutes later that shit really hits the fan.
Whoop-whoop.
I freeze in my kitchen, a scoop of cucumber salad in one hand and a box in the other. That sounded like… a police siren.
She did not actually call the police on me, did she?
My head falls back, and I stare unseeingly at the ceiling. Of course, she did.
I slap the cucumber salad in the box, slam it shut, and stomp outside. I give it to the driver of the truck parked up front, who wisely doesn’t say a word before pulling away, and then stand in my yard, waiting my turn because the officer is at Kathy’s front door, listening to her sob story.
She’s gesturing wildly toward my house, her face all screwed up like she’s crying, but there’s not a drop of wetness coming from her eyes. It’s all for show to make herself out to be the victim.
“It’s a good thing I was here to see her or I wouldn’t have even known,” Kathy exclaims. “I guess I’m glad my pickleball was canceled, because she just came traipsing over here, completely uninvited. It’s trespassing at least, probably solicitation too because why else would all of my staff be at her house instead of working like they’re supposed to be?” She’s talking loud enough for me to hear across the yard, making sure that I catch every infuriating bit of her insults and assumptions loud and clear.
I should let it go, but it’s not in my nature to let her tell lies on my name.
Furious, I shout, “Are you serious, Kathy? You’re suggesting that whoring myself out, taking on two whole crews train-style, is the more likely possibility, not them just wanting to eat lunch?” I throw my arm out, motioning to the eight guys who’re standing beneath my tree, open Styrofoam boxes in hand, watching the fallout over a simple delivery.
At my outburst, the officer looks over his shoulder to gauge whether I’m a threat.
I know what he sees—Kathy is obviously wealthy, older, and visibly upset, while I’m poor, young, and obscenely mouthy. To him, I’m the problem, of course.
He’s not wrong. I am a problem, but so is Kathy. Despite her freshly colored blonde bob, designer clothes, and upstanding citizen act, I’d say she’s actually the bigger problem of the two of us.
“Miss, please calm down.”
Behind the officer, Kathy’s fake cries vanish and she looks at me eagerly, wanting me to do something… anything… that’ll get me in the trouble she’s desperately bringing to my doorstep.