Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
“Be that as it may, I want you to do me a favor.”
“Anything,” I respond. After everything he’s done for me, I’d do anything for him.
“Keep an eye on her. Watch her like you would Molly.”
The weight of his words hits my chest. I can feel the pain with every breath I take.
How will I ever look at this man again, knowing what I did to his daughter? I feel sick to my stomach, but I can’t let on. I can’t say anything; what’s done is done, and I just have to move forward.
As if she can hear my words and decides to do the opposite, I feel something touching my foot from under the table. It takes me a moment to realize what it is.
The little hellfire is trying to fuck with me, and her method of torture is playing footsie with me under the table.
My jaw goes rigid, and I turn and glower at her.
She’s smiling innocently at me, then turns back to her father, her lips flattening into a thin line. “I don’t need anyone to look out for me,” she responds. “I get that I needed a job, and you’re the only one hiring, so I’m stuck here, but I’m twenty-two, which is hardly a baby. I can take care of myself.”
“You might think that, but you don’t know my players. It would mean the world to me if Dane here would—”
“Protect me.” Although she isn’t facing me, I can see her roll her eyes, then the corner of her lip tips up. Shit. What is she up to now? My question is answered when her foot travels higher, and I nearly choke.
“Yes.”
“Very well. Dane, will you do it?” she says, but by the way she says it, protecting her isn’t what she’s talking about anymore.
She’s trouble with a capital T, and I don’t think she’s the one who needs protection.
13
JOSIE
It feels like I’m in prison.
While my father’s house is the nicest place I have ever been to, the walls feel like they’re closing in on me.
I’ve sequestered myself within the guesthouse for days, refusing to leave.
I freeze, realizing the source of my sour mood. It’s Sunday Date Night.
Growing up, my mom worked eighty hour weeks, yet she always managed to put aside Sundays for our mother-daughter date nights. Even if it meant switching shifts. Or missing out on overtime. Spaghetti, movies, online shopping for things we never bought. I miss it all.
On instinct, I press the first speed dial on my phone. It doesn’t even ring before I end the call, realizing what I almost did. I refuse to be the first to break.
I can’t be here anymore.
The air feels stale and stagnant. I can’t breathe, and to be honest, I ran out of food last night.
I’ll have no choice but to walk to the main house today. That is, unless I want to starve to death.
I wonder if I can order delivery to the backyard?
Nope. Not an option, considering my mom shut off my credit card and I have no money. Never mind that it’s a ridiculous idea to even think about.
The truth is, I’m pretty much up shit creek unless I square my shoulders, put on a brave face, and deal with the cards dealt.
They want to get to know me . . .
I have reservations about that. Why? Because I don’t know how to act.
How does one pretend they don’t have trauma from feeling abandoned by my father? I had to convince myself I was a product of science just to deal. The truth is, I didn’t convince myself of shit. I knew deep down all along but refused to acknowledge it. If Mom couldn’t, why did I have to?
I know the day will come when I have to be an adult and talk to him, but getting to know my estranged father is not how I want to spend the remainder of my summer. I’ve chosen to ignore the huge elephant in the room, and despite him asking if we can talk, I’ve brushed him off every time he’s tried. I’m being a baby, and I know this, but right now, being in a new place, I need to protect my heart.
Before I can second-guess myself, I walk to the guesthouse door and peer outside.
Just go.
The main house is far away. It doesn’t even feel like I’m on the same property.
If they wanted, they could rent this out to someone and never see that person. Kind of like me hiding out, a renter could easily go unnoticed for months. It feels disconnected.
It’s a good thing and a bad thing.
Good, because I don’t have to be confronted by real life, real life being I’m living on the property of two people I only met days ago, and one of those people is my biological father, who I have no relationship with.