Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 42185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 141(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 141(@300wpm)
I don’t know if I loved her. She was the daughter of a well-respected man with a ton of money, so I figured she’d be a good match. I liked to fuck her and I liked having her around, so I figured that was good enough. I was in my thirties, it was time to settle down.
We got married when I was thirty-three. Two years later, she got pregnant.
I take a breath and let it out. I can’t think about Marla. I haven’t let myself go down this road in a long time but since I’m starting to release some guilt, maybe part of me is trying to release her as well.
I’m not ready to release her. I’m afraid I never will be.
I stretch and roll over onto my side, looking at the clock. I have to look again, eyes going slowly wide.
It’s nine-fucking-thirty.
I start to jump out of bed, but I stop myself. I’m already late and everyone is aware of it by now, so why bother pretending like I didn’t oversleep? I mean, fucking hell, I haven’t overslept once in the last five years. This is the first time I’ve gotten over eight hours of sleep since the accident.
Why the fuck shouldn’t I just enjoy it for once?
I roll back into bed and grab my phone. I dial Rogers’ number and wait for him to pick up.
“Good morning, sir,” he says.
“Good morning. As it turns out, I overslept.”
“Yes, sir. You did.” He doesn’t sound annoyed. He actually sounds… happy.
“I was hoping you could send Hazel back here.”
A short but noticeable pause. “Back to your room, sir?”
“Yes, Rogers. Have her bring coffee and my paper, will you?”
“Coffee and your paper in bed,” he says softly. “Very well, sir.”
I shake my head and hang up the phone. Rogers rarely tips his hand and shows what he thinks about how I live my life, but clearly he couldn’t help himself.
I know he worried about me. He’s said as much over the years. I know Rogers thinks it’s well past time to let go of the ghosts that keep dragging me back to this place and rejoin society. He’s been advocating release for me for at least a couple of years now.
Unfortunately I’ve been my own judge and jury, and only my opinion mattered.
I don’t have to wait long. I hear her footsteps come down the hall and stop outside of my door. She knocks three times and waits.
“Come in,” I call out.
She manages to get the door open and carry the tray inside. I sit up in bed, wearing just my pajama pants, the covers hanging loosely around my waist. She looks at my shirtless body, my rumpled hair, and quickly looks down at the floor.
“Good morning, Daddy,” she says, performing a curtsy with her hands full.
“Bring that over here.”
She carries the tray over. I place it down on the bed, sitting cross-legged. She hesitates next to me.
“Anything else?” she asks.
“Sit,” I say, pointing at the bed. “Have some.”
There’s a second mug, and she does as I asked. I’m guessing Rogers put the second mug there, the sly dog. I smile a little as I sip my coffee and Hazel pours herself some.
I grab the paper and place it down on the bed next to me. “What do you think?” I ask her almost casually.
“Of what?”
“My room.”
She looks around. It’s a simple room, almost spartan. There’s a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and a closet. There’s a TV mounted on the wall.
The only interesting aspects are the paintings. Ever since I locked myself away, I’ve been investing in art slowly but surely, and over the last five years I’ve amassed a pretty solid collection.
They’re all hanging on the walls. A Picasso, a Rembrandt, along with more contemporary artists like Cy Twombly and Jackson Pollock. Some of them are by up-and-coming no-name artists, and there’s at least one Banksy, a tiny little thing perched in a corner.
She looks around and smiles. “I had no idea,” she says, laughing a little.
“Take a look around.”
She stands and walks toward the Pollock. “Is this really…?”
“Cost a lot of money, but it’s real,” I say.
She shakes her head, looking closely at each painting. “This is incredible.”
“I’m glad you like it.” I sip my coffee and watch as she goes around the room looking at each painting closely. It takes her at least fifteen minutes and she talks quietly under her breath the whole time.
Finally, she faces me. “Is this why you hired me?”
I raise an eyebrow. “No, I didn’t hire you because I also collect art.”
“I mean, did you hire me because I’m a painter?”
“No,” I say, laughing a little. “That was an added bonus.”
“You gave me shit for it.”
“That’s right.”
“And yet you spend millions on paintings. How does someone that spends so much money collecting art look down on people that get art degrees?”