Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Turn: Did he find anything?
Me: Well…I’m not sure how to break this to you…
Turn: Break what to me?
Me: She’s wanted.
Turn: WHAT?
I grin like the devil as I type out another cryptic message.
Me: In all fifty states.
Turn: WANTED FOR WHAT?
Fuck, I wish I could keep this going for just a teensy bit longer, but I have too much work to catch up on. So, I throw in the towel and give him what I know.
Me: Just kidding. She’s clean as a fucking whistle.
Greer Hudson isn’t anything but a thorn in his side.
Not a criminal. Or a drug addict. Or some freaky dominatrix who ties people up and whips them. She’s simply a beautiful woman who makes Trent Turner crazy.
Turn: You didn’t hire a PI, did you?
Obviously, I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be allowed the opportunity to slow roll him a bit.
Me: Are you calling me a liar?
Not even twenty seconds later, my phone vibrates in my hand.
Turn: Yes, you lying motherfucker, I am. No PI completes a “thorough” check in one fucking hour.
I can see the text bubbles moving up and down on the screen, indicating he’s primed and ready, and I send another quick response before he can shoot me a ramble full of fuck yous.
Me: You’re welcome for saving your ass and preventing you from doing something stupid.
Instantly, the text bubbles stop and never return.
Obviously, I do know people. But I’m not hiring a PI because Trent has a hate-boner for his new employee.
And everyone thinks Quince is the most reliable friend.
Pfft.
Emory
I look at the time on my phone and see it’s quarter after seven. Instantly, my eyes move toward the entrance of the restaurant and then take a quick detour heavenward when my boyfriend is nowhere in sight.
And here I sit, inside Le Bernardin, one of my favorite New York restaurants, all by myself.
A sigh escapes my lungs as I pick at the white napkin wrapped around my cutlery.
For some reason, I spend the majority of my life waiting on people.
My best friend Greer can’t be on time to save her life, and it seems, now that they’ve met, her tardiness has spread to my boyfriend like a parasite.
I look at my phone to see if Quince has texted or called to let me know how long he’ll be, but I’m redirected when my sassy sister from another mister slides a text into my inbox.
Greer: I can’t believe you’re ditching me to have dinner with your boyfriend.
Greer: In New York, of all places, btw. It’s like you’re just asking me to get mugged or kidnapped or something.
This snarky bitch grew up in New Orleans. She spent her weekends working at her grandfather’s restaurant, which means she also spent her weekends strong-arming drunk Mardi Gras tourists.
I’ve literally seen her punch a guy three times her size in the balls.
A punch to the face you’d expect.
Even a kick to the family jewels is understandable.
But a fist to some drunken asshole’s balls? That’s the kind of crazy shit I’ve learned to expect from Greer.
Needless to say, this isn’t the kind of chick who would get kidnapped. If anything, the kidnapper wouldn’t last two minutes before returning her.
I scoff to myself and type out a quick response. Giving attitude is, without a doubt, her most readily available skill.
She serves it as both a means of self-preservation and amusement, and she’s been that way for as long as I can remember.
And that’s a long time.
Me: Why is that something you can’t believe? Quince is actually nice to me.
Greer and I first met at St. Augustine School in the first grade. She was toothy and full of piss and vinegar back then. She cursed and spat and did everything my mother had told me a lady never did. At the time, I didn’t understand it was because she was being raised by a man and a boy in the absence of her parents, but I didn’t need to.
As a first-grader born into privilege and swanky parties, I thought Greer’s aggressive take on life seemed almost otherworldly cool.
She was outspoken and didn’t take shit off anyone.
She was the six-year-old who stood up for me with a mouthful of sass and curse words a child her age never should’ve said when Sara Ruey told me I had ugly hair.
She was a shit-talking, outrageous enigma, and I wanted to be her with a desperation I didn’t understand.
Ironically, she would have given anything to be me.
I had two parents who loved me and everything material the world had to offer at my fingertips. She had pictures of the parents she’d never met, a uniform that was a size too small, and a pair of gym shoes her grandfather snagged from the Goodwill. Scuffed-up, beaten-down Nikes that she snazzed up with black-inked doodles of hearts and skulls and her name.