Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
As much as I “live near” Madonna or any of the other celebrities who own homes on the beach in the Colony.
“But…”
Her smile falls like a rock and she leans in, her voice hushed. “Look, dude, I won’t mince words. Grandpa called and said that if I give Richie Rich here”––she jabs a thumb over her shoulder––“a chance to work off his community service and provide transportation, he’ll make a sizable donation.”
Nuts. “How s-s––”
“Sizable,” she says with the decisive jaw-snapping of someone who’s ready to sacrifice anyone and anything to get it. “Do it for the orphans, D. The babies need you.”
She knows me. She knows I would never say no to the orphans. “Okay…I guess.”
“Great! He’s working the same sched as you so just swing by his place on Sat and pick him up.”
“But––”
“You’re the tits. You know I always say that about you.” And with that, she leans back in her chair, slams the heels of her red Doc Martin lace-ups on her desk, and goes back to cleaning her gun.
I’m having a hard time understanding how this is a compliment. “I never unders-stood––”
“Twice as good.”
How did this happen? How did I get bamboozled into playing chauffeur for someone who could afford ten of them? I am so mad at myself I could chew glass.
“Sometimes I feel like S-Sisyphus,” I mutter to myself, gripping Bernadette’s steering wheel with undue force. It’s really not right to take it out on her.
“I’m pretty sure you need to have sex to get syphilis,” Dallas says in a lazy tone.
My skin flares with heat from my scalp to my toes and nearly singes the hair off my scalp. And there it is. No need to wonder if he saw my list anymore.
I run through a very short list of snappy comebacks and nix every one of them. Best I can do now is pretend I don’t understand English. It’s either pretend to no comprende, or drive this car into the ocean and pray he drowns before I do––which is highly unlikely seeing he practically lives in the water. He’ll probably be forced to save me and then I’ll owe him a debt of gratitude.
Stealing a sideways glance, I find his head tipped back onto the headrest and his mirrored sunglasses shading whatever is going on in his eyes.
“I s-said S-Sisyphus. You know…Greek mythology.”
“Heard you, Dory.” Sliding his glasses to the top of his head, he aims the force of his electric blue gaze, which is considerable, at me. “I just wanted to make sure you were paying attention.”
Then he smiles. It’s unvarnished delight at my expense. Bernadette hits the bottom of the California Incline and I hit the gas as we merge onto Pacific Coast Highway. He chuckles, and in that moment, I hate his guts.
Dallas
I’m trying to antagonize her. I am. I fully admit it. I need her to let loose all that anger she’s got bottled up. Know this about women: you do not, under any circumstance, want them carrying around a lot of anger. The longer it goes on, the worse it gets for us dudes.
“H-H-How did you know about the shelter?”
The first words she’s spoken in ten minutes and a good sign that I’m getting closer to getting what I want. Another indication is the stutter becomes more pronounced the madder she gets.
Mirrored shades hiding my eyes, I watch her grip the steering wheel like she’s ready to choke the life out of it. Her back stiff, stubborn chin lifted. Yup, she’s ready to blow any minute.
“I found it on your phone.” That should put her over the top. “When I was looking through it,” I add for good measure.
She’s turns an interesting shade of purple, far surpassing expectation, so all-in-all good progress.
“How could you! T-T-That s-s-stuff is private!”
“If it was private, you would’ve locked your phone, Dora. But you didn’t. So who’s fault is it?”
At the stop light one block from my house, she turns to face me, fire nearly shooting out of her eyes. It almost makes me smile.
“What you did is unf-forgivable.”
“You’ll forgive me,” I murmur flatly. It’s just a fact. Dora is good down to the fiber of her being.
She’s momentarily shocked silent. “N-No, I-I won’t.” The blinker goes on and she autopilots her little green Chiclet of a car down my street.
“Yes, you will. Because you’re a good person.”
He brows lower and her eyes get squinty. “This is a t-trick. I get it now.”
“No trick. Just pointing out the obvious. I’m an asshole and you’re a really good person.”
“Y-You’re not that bad––except f-for your language. That’s p-pretty bad.”
“You think I’m an empty vessel.”
Her face drops. So does her anger. Pulling into my driveway, she parks and turns the car off. “No…You’re not.” She sighs. “I was j-just…upset. And…and I wanted to h-hurt you back. I didn’t m-mean it.”