Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
"I promise if I am in some downward spiral, I will come home. I'm probably just in need of some fun. I've been on back-to-back jobs for months."
"The infidelity business is always booming."
"Speaking of—"
"Don't worry. Roman is still having nightmares about your Christmas morning threat to string him up by his balls if he cheats on me."
"By a string of Christmas lights. Don't forget the best part."
"Yes, of course. A festive threat."
"Gotta keep it fresh." Even if we both knew Roman was not the cheating sort. If you could count on anything in the world, it was that the sun would rise, the tax man would find you, and Roman was one-thousand-percent head-over-heels for his wife.
"Okay. If you promise you're alright, I will leave you alone. I know you need to move Wanda."
"Yeah. We are not very inconspicuous parked a block from the hotel," I agreed. "Kiss the kids for me."
"You suck for teaching them that song, by the way. Now I have to sing it to them every night."
"'Goodnight, Demonslayer' is classic Voltaire. And a very good message for kids, in my humble opinion."
"I love you. Thirty-five Louboutin pumps."
"Love you back two-thousand bags of Fritos."
"Goodnight."
"'Night."
Feeling marginally better after a talk with her, I turned over Wanda, and headed toward the meeting place with the client, collecting my check, going back to the hotel to check out, and then went straight out of town. Out of state.
The sun was rising when I finally pulled over into a camping ground, pulled the curtains on all of the windows, put the massive wooden plank down across the door to prevent any access, climbed into my bed, and passed out.
I woke up startled and groggy, not sure what day it was or what town I was in.
Flopping over in my bed, I fumbled for my phone finding it tucked under the pillows, opening it to see what time it was, and where I was currently parked.
Satisfied with that, I opened up my email, ready to spend a moment or two scrolling through the junk, deleting it so I wouldn't have to pay for yet more storage.
I didn't expect any work emails.
Usually, there were a couple day—or even week—gaps between when I finished one job, and when I had another lined up.
There it was, though, demanding attention.
If nothing else, work provided a distraction from my uncharacteristically sour mood.
Opening it, I found something a little unexpected. Not the desperate preamble full of hurt and anger and bitterness.
But, rather, a name. Followed by instructions to search his online presence.
Curious, I did so before finishing the email, wondering who the hell this Fenway Arlington guy was if this client was talking about him as though he was somebody.
I found a ton of social media accounts full of pretty views, epic parties, beautiful women on yachts and at poolsides.
Rich guy aesthetic, that was how you would describe his social media presence.
Rich of the old money, born-rich sort.
Rich was rich, but rich couldn't afford yachts. They couldn't flex that hard.
Wealthy was a category of its own, one this man belonged squarely in.
There weren't any good, close pictures of the man himself, just a hint of a seemingly handsome profile, the outline of a very nice suit, his legs.
No up-close selfies to see if he had also won the genetic—along with socioeconomic—lottery.
Interested, I clicked back over to the email.
There is a cool hundred-grand in it for you if you can do the impossible.
If you can make Fenway Arlington fall in love with you.
Perhaps I should have been suspicious of that sort of money. But then again, I knew what bitterness did to a woman. It could make them go to any lengths to get payback.
If Fenway Arlington was crazy wealthy, it wasn't a huge leap to imagine some of the shoulders he rubbed against—and the women he bedded and broke the hearts of—were wealthy as well.
You will want to make sure you have your passport, the email added. Fenway is currently getting into trouble in Paris for the third time this year. I will offer five grand up-front as good faith money if you agree to the job.
Five grand was nothing to sneeze at.
And on top of it all, I got to see a brand new sight.
I didn't, as a rule, do international jobs. There was a lot of risk there. Different laws. It was touchy.
That said, there was nothing illegal at all in making a man fall in love with you. Then breaking his heart. Certainly not in France, anyway.
I had a passport.
It only had one stamp in it, from a post-high school trip with Raven down to the Bahamas to let off some steam and drink legally while we were still technically illegal.
It looked like I was about to get another one.
Excitement bubbled in my belly, little champagne fizzles of anticipation, as I typed out a response before climbing out of bed, not even bothering to change, just turning Wanda in the direction of the east coast.