Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 22937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 115(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 115(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Instead, I dial Rachel.
“That was fast,” she answers. “What do you need?”
“Tell Ferguson to pause the interest on Scarlett’s account, and we’ll discuss a potential representation agreement.”
“Okay… Is this Scarlett person tied to another client we have or something?”
“No,” I say. “Just add her to my personal ‘We Don’t Talk About This’ folder.”
“Done...” She taps against her keyboard. “Oh, and about those glittering stilettos from your car…”
“I have an address for you to send them to.”
“Me too.” She laughs. “The Chanel store. I already had a courier take them.”
“Without asking me first?”
“Um, yeah,” she says. “They were stolen…”
IMPOSSIBILITY (N.):
WHEN AN ACT CANNOT BE PERFORMED DUE TO NATURE, PHYSICAL IMPEDIMENTS OR UNFORESEEN EVENTS.
SCARLETT
Eighty-six.
Eighty-seven.
Eighty-nine.
No matter how many times I count the bills in my wallet, they refuse to transform into five hundred dollars.
They won’t even show me any sympathy by stretching into one hundred.
As I flip through them one last time, I can now see why people print their own counterfeit.
It might be worth it…
Sighing, I slide them back into my wallet.
If I can make this money last until I get paid on Thursday, ace at least five auditions and land three paying roles between now and December, and ace my Drama final for a chance at an understudy program—I can…
I stop myself from finishing that thought.
I’ve officially crossed into the land of delusions, and I need to make a hard turn back into reality.
I’m standing in my final building of the night, a place that reads “Ate and Ass,” a supposed law firm that sits on the edge of the Hudson River.
“Hey, Cinderella!” My manager yells from down the hall.
“Yes, Mr. Brice?”
“How are you going to clean the floors without moving the fucking mop?” He gestures for me to push it. “You only get six hours per shift before the suits start trickling in!”
“Yes, sir.” I bite my tongue and stick the mop into fresh water before pressing it against the marble.
I’m still convinced the temp agency assigned me to janitorial work as a joke or a way to make me quit, but thirty bucks an hour to clean floors and empty trash is exactly the type of mind-numbing work I needed.
I turn up the volume on my earbuds and make my way down the east wing.
As I’m wiping down framed newspaper clippings, my phone vibrates against my pocket.
Unknown number.
I send it to voicemail.
Seconds later, it sounds again.
I ignore it once more.
When it buzzes the third time, I notice it’s not a phone call, but a new text message.
555-0978
It’s Jameson. Pick up your phone.
I’m working. I’ll pass.
Working to pay back Chanel for the shoes you stole or the loan company for the money you can’t pay back?
I gasp and immediately call him.
“Yes?” he answers before the line can even ring.
“You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about,” I say. “And I could’ve sworn you were the one saying we didn’t need to talk anymore.”
“I changed my mind,” he says. “It’s not every day I meet someone with such flawed judgment in life. I’m intrigued.”
I’m tempted to hang up and block this man forever, but I can’t deny that I’ve spent the past several nights wishing he would call. Wanting to see if I could get a second dose of feeling something other than hopelessness.
“Intrigued about what?” I ask.
“Well, for one, I’d like to know how someone who works in marketing and can afford to live in lower Manhattan would ever need to steal shoes... Why?”
“I was planning to return them at the end of this month…”
“That doesn’t really answer my question.”
“I needed a particular pair of shoes for an—” I choke before the word “audition” can leave my lips. “For an event. A potential life-changing event, and they cost about two thousand two hundred dollars more than what I had on my card, so I borrowed them.”
“That’s grand larceny in the fourth degree.”
“Are you planning to turn me in?”
“I should.”
Silence.
My chest tightens at the mere thought of him doing that—at the thought of my father getting a call, and before I can plead for him not to, his low laughter sifts over the line.
The sound of it eases me for a moment.
“Is that all you wanted to do to me?” I ask. “Judge me?”
“I’d like to do a lot more to you than that, Scarlett.”
“What did you just say?”
“I don’t judge anyone for their crimes,” he says. “That’s part of being a defense attorney.”
“That’s not what you said, Jameson.”
“Then I’m glad you heard me…” There’s a smile in his voice. “We should talk in person about your loan situation.”
“Why?” I swallow, unsure of how he even found out about that, why he even cares.
“I honestly don’t know,” he says. “But I can tell when someone’s in serious trouble, and in your case, I can’t seem to stop thinking about you—I mean ‘it,’ so…”