Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“Originally, I wanted the house next door. But the son of a bitch stole it from me when my father died. Even in death, my dear old dad screwed me over. Anyway, I bought this house just to fuck with my neighbor. My wife has allowed very few renovations.”
I hang back several steps when he grips the ornate brass knob on the paneled door of the room at the end of the hallway. The chances of me liking this guy are slim, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling a little respect for his buying this place just to fuck with his neighbor.
“Sweetheart, I have someone I want you to meet,” he says, cracking open the door and poking his head inside the room before nodding for me to follow him.
There’s nothing cozy about this museum. Who sleeps in a four-poster bed with claw feet? And why is there a wood fireplace in a bedroom? There’s also an antique looking desk, a light blue velvet bench at the end of the bed, a turntable, and a high-back cream chair (that resembles a throne) by one of the four grand windows. Sure, it’s impressive, but it’s not homey. It’s cold and lifeless.
The twiggy woman eyes me from her throne as she slides a bookmark into her novel, then rests it on her lap. She removes her gold-framed reading glasses, blue-eyed gaze lifting, offering me a tiny smile as she combs her pointy fingernails through her silvery blond hair sharply angled at her jaw. I once had a math teacher who looked like her. She sent me to the nurse’s office because I wouldn’t stop scratching my head. Lice.
Mrs. Rawlings is pretty, just like my math teacher. If she doesn’t like sex, Rupert must not know what he’s doing.
“Callie, this is Flynn. He needed a job, so I hired him to be your muse. Also, the gallery called, and your painting is done. Flynn will drive you to pick it up,” Rupert says with his back to her, gazing out the window.
Callie blinks at me several times. Then she wets her lips and stares at her hands, fiddling with her rings.
“Questions?” He turns away from the window, hands in his pockets.
I focus on her. Surely, he’s not asking me. Of course, I have questions. At least a hundred.
They have a stare-off which ends in her rolling her eyes toward the ceiling and releasing an exasperated huff.
“Great. I’ll let you two sort out the details and decide when you want to leave.” He adjusts his loose tie, like he either never committed to wearing it or he abandoned the urge to remove it. Then he rests his hand on my shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze before leaving me with his wife.
She eyes me up and down, letting her gaze linger on my feet. I wiggle my toes. Both socks have holes and are white in name only. Grungy jeans with torn knees. And an orange Howard’s Mobile Detail shirt with mink oil stains. I look like a guy most people would remove from their home by force.
Callie stands and adjusts her white, loose-fitting tank top over her long, flowing skirt; gold necklaces dangle with pendants from her slender neck. Again, she eyes my attire and smirks while stepping past me toward a dresser with doors, where she pulls out a gray cardigan and slips it on.
I clear my throat. “This is my first muse job, so feel free to give me pointers.”
Rolling the long cuffs of her cardigan, she laughs and mumbles, “Men.”
I’m a man, so how do I respond?
“I told that big oaf he’s uninspiring, so he hires me a muse who needs pointers. Where did he find you?”
“I detailed his car.”
She glances up. “So you have a job and he stole you?”
“I took his car for a joyride, then he offered me a job.”
Callie squints for a few seconds, then she relaxes. “You’re working for him so he doesn’t have you arrested.”
“Something like that.”
“Good grief.” She jerks her head toward the bedroom door while walking to the bathroom. “Go home.”
Is it that easy? He hires me. She fires me. All is forgiven?
I doubt it.
“What if I take you to the gallery, and you wait to fire me? Maybe I’m a natural at this muse gig.”
Click.
The door closes behind her.
Great. Is she slitting her wrists? Downing a bottle of pills? Who gives someone like me the job of keeping their wife alive? He must want her dead. And when it happens, he’ll blame me.
I glance around the room, coming close to sitting on the edge of her bed before rethinking what’s on the backside of my jeans and how it might rub off onto her white bedding. Instead, I sit on a padded footstool beside the bathroom door, which might be too small to hold my six-foot-two self. But now that my butt has landed on it, knees hugged to my chest, I feel committed to the stupid idea and stay in this cramped position.