Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
That’s why I don’t come around the house much anymore. I don’t know how to be that man anymore for the kids. I try, but it’s like I’m miming the motions, saying the words, but there’s nothing behind it.
No feelings, no part of me that cares anymore.
“Goodnight, Karah.”
She sighs but doesn’t stop me this time.
As I leave the house, I hesitate near the pool. An inflatable giraffe, sun-faded and ancient, floats in the deep end. I think about Emilio when he was little, before I ever met Sonia, back before I sold the bowling alleys and dedicated myself to my street crew. We used to swim in that pool all the time, drift in the sunlight, splash around and laugh. Those were good days, and a part of me aches for them again.
It’s the same part of me that reacted to Jeanie when she sat on my lap in Malcolm’s office.
Not the sexual part. No, it’s the part of me that’s searching for something more, and for whatever reason, it activated the second I felt Jeanie close against my body. That girl’s trouble, it’s obvious for anyone looking, and she’s hiding something important. She hates Malcolm for a reason, and she might have a serious self-destructive streak in her, a streak that might drag me down with her if I let her get too close.
And yet I can’t help myself. She’s the opposite of Sonia in so many ways. Where Sonia was tall and willowy and blonde, Jeanie’s small and curvy and dark. Jeanie’s brash and brave and outgoing. Sonia was quiet and reserved, like an ice princess.
Jeanie burns hot.
I might need hot to wake me up again.
I leave the house and go to find out if Jeanie’s what I need or if she’s a pretty distraction.
Chapter 7
Jeanie
I stomp back home after getting off the bus. It’s late, it’s dark, my feet hurt, my back aches, my arms are doing that shaky-exhausted-tingly thing that happens when I spend too long holding up trays, and all I want to do is sleep.
Catering is hard, much harder than mailroom work. I liked being in an office—it was air-conditioned and there was always free food floating around—but the catering gigs are rough. I can’t turn them down though, especially since Lauren’s basically saving my ass by bringing me on board, otherwise I won’t make rent at the end of the month, but I keep imagining myself stalking after Malcolm and Benedict waiting for the right moment to strike and get my revenge—
Which is a fantasy. A stupid fantasy, one that seems less and less likely.
That asshole Gavino ruined it for me. If he hadn’t pulled that stunt with the couch, I wouldn’t have gotten fired. Reprimanded maybe, but not fired. Then again, with the car keys at the fundraiser event, he didn’t have to throw me in a closet and steal them back. I could’ve handled everything myself, maybe even found something worthwhile in Malcolm’s car, and instead I’m further away than I’ve ever been and working every night, feeling miserable and sorry for myself.
I reach my apartment building and head inside. The halls are long and dark and quiet. I reach my door, go to unlock it, but stop.
It’s open a crack.
I frown and nudge it. The door swings silently. I know I shut it before I left and locked up—I have a distinct memory of doing it. I step inside and look around, my palms sweating suddenly, my armpits pooling moisture, my heart hammering in my ribs.
The place is a wreck.
My living room is smashed. My thrift store paintings are ripped off the wall and thrown on the floor. My cheap vases and houseplants are smashed to glass and clay bits. My chairs are knocked over and even my couch cushions are thrown on the floor. My TV is on and playing nothing but static with a big crack down the middle.
I stare around until I notice the person standing in the hallway that leads to my bedroom.
I nearly scream but choke it off as Benedict steps into the light.
“Hello, Jeanie,” he says, staring at me with a strange neutral expression. If he looked angry right now, at least that I would understand, but it’s the blankness in his eyes that makes terror pool in my feet and hands. Whatever this man is about to do, he doesn’t feel a damn thing about it.
This is nothing but a job.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Emmerson?”
His lips curl. “No need for formalities. Call me Benedict.” He steps forward, boots crunching over glass. “I remember you from the office. You were always a squirrelly little one, constantly darting around, looking at people with wide eyes like you were afraid you were about to be caught doing something wrong. But several of the managers spoke highly of you, and so I ignored your anxiety. Some people are simply high-strung, I reasoned. But then you had your run-in with Gavino Bruno, and I wondered. Why were they in Mr. Strafford’s office?”