Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
It doesn’t take long to reach Gram’s house. She lives in a skinny two-story just off the main commercial district in downtown Frosty Harbor. The house is about as old as she is, which is saying something.
I take a few deep breaths, raise my hand, and knock twice.
It’s a few seconds before I hear the sound of her cocking her shotgun just behind the door. “Alright, motherfucker,” a shrill, wavering voice calls from the other side of the door. “You’d better have a good reason to make me rush off the crapper at this early.”
I sigh. “It’s me, Grams. Let me in, and please put that stupid gun away. We all know you don’t actually have real bullets in there. You’re not shooting anyone.”
The door creaks open, revealing a large, watery blue eye and wrinkled skin in the crack.
Grams is setting a yoga mat down in front of the TV. She’s hunched and resembles a garden gnome more than anything–with full rosy cheeks, gray hair, big and mischievous eyes, and a permanent impression of a smile on her well-lined lips.
She’s wearing a mildly terrifying shade of yellow and white leggings with a top that is neon orange.
“Why are you dressed like a traffic cone?” I ask, carefully sitting down on her couch, which has been sheathed in a thick plastic cover since I was a kid. I’m pretty sure the original couch has never been touched by human skin, but Grams claims she keeps the cover on so she can have her important guests sit on a clean couch. Apparently, nobody in the history of her life has ever qualified as important, though.
“That’s funny,” Grams says, planting her hands on her hips and gyrating in a way that isn’t meant for human eyes. “I’m in my fifties and still look this good. What’s your excuse? What is that, anyway? A potato sack?”
I grin. “It’s a perfectly normal jacket. And you haven’t been in your fifties since the fifties.”
She sticks an old VHS tape into the player below her tube TV. Static crackles for a few seconds, then a faded recording of three men in 70’s style bright aerobics clothes comes on.
Instead of joining in as they warm up, Grams puts on her reading glasses and waddles closer to the TV. She makes an appreciative noise.
“Oh, come on,” I say. “Can you at least wait until I’m gone to be a creep?”
“When are you going to be gone, exactly? You know, I don’t offer discounts for not occupying my rentals. You should go enjoy the cabin.”
“The one you double booked, you mean?”
“Is that why you’re here? I told you to deal with it, kiddo. Decision has been made.”
“It was the wrong decision,” I say.
“I’d agree with you, but then we’d both be wrong.”
I sigh. “What were you thinking, Grams?”
She finally peels her eyes from the TV as the three guys bend over, touching their toes with their asses to the camera. What kind of show was this, anyway?
“I was thinking,” she says, peering up at me from above her readers. “My granddaughter is young and I don’t want our family line to die off with you. No offense, but that would be kind of disappointing. Don’t you think?”
“I’m not even thirty, Grams.”
“No?” she asks, squinting. “Might want to make sure you’re keeping up with the sunscreen, then. Good luck convincing a man of that, anyway. I could’ve sworn I just sent you a forty-second birthday card the other day.”
I scowl, but I’m also smiling a little. I know Grams is mostly full of it. She’s like an emotional vampire who feeds on the annoyance of others. It’s probably the secret to her inexplicable energy. When she’s not using her powers of mischief to mess with my personal life and my carefully laid plans, I usually just find her amusing.
“I’m not going to have children with Nolan,” I say. “I’m more likely to strangle him in his sleep.”
“Auto-erotic asphyxiation is a big thing in the kink world,” Grams says, nodding her approval. “Let me know how you like it.”
“I shouldn’t have bothered coming here,” I say.
“Mia?” she asks, stopping me as I’m getting up from the crinkly plastic-covered couch.
“What?” I ask.
“Good luck with your interview. Caroline told me it was today.” There’s finally a touch of genuine warmth in her face.
I eye her suspiciously. I know better than to fully trust Grams just because she looks genuine, though. “Thanks?”
“I know a few people who specialize in revenge. They’re sharp as marbles, of course, but they can get the job done. And they’re discreet. If they don’t hire you, just let me know.” She winks, and not in a just kidding kind of way.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks, Grams. I should get going to the interview.” I hug her and leave her to her weird VHS tape, which is now showing the three guys jumping in rhythm as music pulses.