Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
As I stare at the image in the mirror, a surge of recalcitrance gets past the embarrassment, past the fear that I may have caused irreparable damage to my life. It lifts my chin, and squares my shoulders. I don’t bother cleaning my face. Nope. I chuck the wet paper towels in the trash and wear that hideous mess as a badge of honor.
I stopped caring what anybody thinks of me a long time ago. The mess in the mirror, this is who I am in all my abundantly flawed glory. Heavy emphasis on the flawed part. No apologies made. No figs given. I do me, for better or worse––usually worse.
Outside the ladies room, I locate a water fountain. In the middle of taking a huge gulp, voices from around the corner get my attention. Not like they’re whispering, so you can’t blame me for listening.
“Can’t she stay with us?” That’s Cal. His deep baritone is unmistakable.
“No. She’s my responsibility now. It shouldn’t take longer than three months anyway.”
Three months? Groan.
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like anything,” replies my lawyer. Can’t say I don’t agree with him there.
“Do I have to warn you to keep your hands to yourself?”
Then, a raspy masculine chuckle. “You think I’d jeopardize my career over a hump? I could get disbarred if there’s so much as a whisper of impropriety.”
A hump? Okay, that stings. As much as I’d like to say otherwise, it kind of stings. Just a little. Which makes me hate myself. I should be immune to such nonsense. I have less than zero interest in this man, not even as a hump, not even as desperate as I am and I’ve got desperation written all over me.
I know I’m not his type. I’m sure he dates supermodels or supercelebrities or some such shit. And God knows he isn’t my type. And yet, hearing that I’m not even good enough for a hump still stings…a teensy bit. And I have to live with him––for three months. If there’s any justice in this world whomever he’s humping will give him pube fleas.
“Under normal circumstances, I’d say no, but––”
“But what?”
Enough. I’ve had enough. I walk around the corner and all conversation ceases. “Ready?” I say, my game face on, the one devoid of any evidence that I’ve overheard them discussing me as if I’m nothing more than a hot burden to be tossed back and forth between them.
There’s nothing I loath more than depending on other people. I’ve always been self-sufficient, having learned that useful skill decades ago when Eileen, also known as the slacker who gave birth to me, decided that she would simply pawn me off on my grandparents and start fresh with Dan.
Now I’m at the mercy of these two heroes. Bile rises up at the mere thought of it. Welcome to my life. Some people have cheerful, happy-go lucky ones. Some have solemn, purposeful ones. Mine’s got chronic bitch face interrupted by fleeting moments of mild amusement. This is not one of those moments.
It took another twenty minutes for me to be released, for Vaughn to make arrangements for my bail to be paid. They gave me back my purse, the only personal item the police confiscated when I was brought in, my coat and other shoe lost in the chaos of my arrest.
“I’ll go get the car.” Vaughn stalks away, his long legs eating up ground as he exits out the door and across the empty parking lot.
“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” I mumble in a listless voice. I get a bunch of grumbled words from Cal, and an equal amount of, “You don’t have to thank us,” from Camilla.
Through the glass door, the three of us watch Vaughn’s broad back disappear into the moonless night. As soon as he’s out of sight, Cal faces me and exhales tiredly. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants and shrugs up his massive shoulders.
“I need to say somethin’––” Reaching up, he rubs his scruff covered jaw. He seems unsure, as if he’s searching for the right words.
“Spit it out, Calvin. I know you’re dying to let me have it. Let’s get it over with.”
“Do me a favor, don’t screw with him, okay. Just…go easy.”
Huh? It takes me a minute to grasp what he means and about whom. He’s worried about his friend? His wealthy, gorgeous friend whose major life issues probably include how to get on the waiting list for the next limited edition Porsche, which he probably pronounces Porscha ‘cause he’s cool like that.
No. Just no. I’ve had the single worst night of my life. I’ve been conned, manhandled, falsely accused, arrested, and insulted. At the very least, it’s making the top two. So is it any wonder that somewhere inside of me a fuse is lit that quickly grows into burning outrage. It really shouldn’t be. And that’s when Bad Amber takes over, punting reason and good sense to the curb.