Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
I look up at Davis. “When was this taken?”
“Macks said three and a half years ago.”
“How old was she?”
“Seventeen.”
I study the picture again and find a little cut on her lip, too. Maybe she’s not pouting? Maybe her lips are just swollen?
She definitely looks seventeen. So that makes her twenty now. I glance back up at Davis and find him smiling. “What the hell are you smiling about?” I ask.
“I think we should look for this girl.”
“Why would we do that?”
“Because it’s a connection, Eason. And you seem dead set on keeping that connection alive. This funk you’re in? It’s gotta stop. You can’t go on like this.”
I ignore that bullshit. “We wouldn’t even know where to start looking. And I’m not traipsing all over the fuckin’ country looking for a stupid girl.”
“I could put some feelers out. In fact, I said I would. According to Macks, everyone has seen these billboards, so she’s sending it out to all her contacts trying to find her.”
“We haven’t seen the fuckin’ billboard, so that’s not true.”
“Actually, I have. Well, not the billboard. A poster on a surf shop window right up Ocean.”
“Shut up.”
“Swear to God. I was over there at the shops at Ocean and Fifteenth—just the other day, actually—and that poster caught my eye from all the way across the street. Shit, the fucking girl I was with even stopped to look. Apparently, this pic is the most popular ad campaign that company ever ran, so they’ve been using it non-stop in different locations for years even though that bathing suit is so out of date, they don’t even sell it anymore.”
I narrow my eyes at Davis. “How do you know so much about this stupid picture?”
He shrugs and sighs out his words. “I dunno, man. It’s kinda weird, right? Like… fate or something.”
“So why doesn’t Macks just call her agent? Why is she so hard to find?”
“Macks tried, but apparently Irina is not a model. Some free agent found her on the beach down by the pier, made an offer, took her to a studio, dressed her up, shot the pics, paid her, and never saw her again.”
I shoot him a look of disbelief. “They took the pics here? In South Beach?”
“Right?” He laughs this word out. “What are the chances she’s a local?”
I scoff and look at the picture again. “She doesn’t even look American.”
“No. Russian.”
“So if the pics were taken three and a half years ago, why do they think she’s still here?”
Davis shrugs. “Good a place to start as any, I guess.”
I hand him the phone. “Just… let it go.” Then I go back to skipping rope. Davis tries to get me interested in the conversation again, but I turn my back and keep skipping.
I’m not in a funk. A funk is something temporary.
Nothing about how I feel is temporary.
Later, after training is over, and only because I have nothing better to do, I take a walk up Ocean towards Fifteenth Street. It’s busy with people and cars. Yelling and laughing. Bright signs everywhere, trying to sell you things ya don’t need. Even though I own a penthouse here, I haven’t made up my mind about South Beach yet.
I do like the actual beach itself. I like to run on the wet sand at night. I like the heat here too. Reminds me of Morocco. And even though I should never want to think about that place again, it’s where the story of me really starts, so I can’t just put it away like a piece of memorabilia.
Sometimes I think that those first few months, when I was running wild with the other homeless kids in the medina quarter of Marrakesh, were the best days of my life. And other times it feels like the start of a never-ending nightmare.
I was terrified nearly twenty-four seven. But there were minutes sprinkled throughout those hours that were fun, filled with strange food, and strange music, and that voice—bellowing through the city twice a day—that made me think about strange gods.
There was laughter too. The other kids were tough, but so was I. That’s why I was there, wasn’t it?
All of it—even the scary parts—was exciting. Because of course, when you’re nine years old and your father sells you to a bunch of strangers who take you to Morocco, and you escape and hook up with a pack of feral children who have stories just like yours, and they talk you into hiding in a truck on its way to Marrakesh, where you live on the streets and steal wallets from tourists to survive, it’s a temporary thing. It never even enters your mind that you won’t be rescued.
There must be some mistake. I remember thinking that. Surely Declan or Conor—who were both there when the whole transaction went down—will come and find me.