Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
I scream out to announce my departure, and he moans in reply. I don’t bother inquiring on his well-being any further—I’ve got myself to worry about.
It’s dark outside and my brain is fried, and no matter how much I wish I had the energy to go skate, I know with every ounce of my being that carbs and trashy reality TV is the only cure to this level of walking-carcass.
I hop into my Civic and start the engine, rubbing at my hands as the evening cold makes the heat struggle to get going. Giving the old girl a minute to warm up, I pick up my phone out of the cupholder with the urge to scroll, and a message appears on the screen.
Unknown: Hey, Kylie. It’s Holland from the rink. Hope it’s okay I got your number from Ted, but after you got that flat last night, it felt imperative that you have my number just in case you find yourself in a bind again.
Ted is the general manager of the rink, and as much as I’d love to believe he thought the action was harmless, it was a big error of judgment to give out my phone number to someone without asking.
Holland’s always been nice to me, but Rook, for all his eccentricities, seems to hate him far more than he hates everyone else.
Oh well. It’s not like Holland having my number is the key to my safe-deposit box or a straight line to my Social Security number. If things get dicey, I can always change the number—thanks to my grandmother, I’m quite familiar with the process.
Me: Please don’t jinx me with another flat tire.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Holland: Ha. Promise I’m not trying to do that. How’s the tire holding up, by the way? That dude Rook get it handled?
Rook’s deep, mysterious brown eyes fill my mind, and a weird urge to push Holland’s buttons as a test overwhelms me. Is the distrust mutual? Or is Rook just being…well, Rook?
Me: Holding up well. Rook got it fixed in no time at all. He was great, actually.
Holland: Glad to hear it. Listen, about that thing on Friday I mentioned. I don’t want to pressure you to do anything you don’t want to do, but I do think it’s a great opportunity. There are a lot of talent scouts looking for beautiful, talented women like you for modeling shoots, commercials, etc.
Before I can overthink it, another message comes through.
Holland: All I’m saying is to keep an open mind about it, okay?
This whole private event thing on Friday night is his favorite topic of conversation, to say the least. I mean, I still don’t even know what it entails, but it’s clear he wants me to go. He didn’t react to the Rook comment, but maybe the desperation to come to his thing is a reaction?
I exhale, longing for a time when the men were just staring at me, and send the most appropriate response.
Me: Okay.
It’s a pathetically bland reply, but right now, at the end of a marathon run of swirling emotions, inconveniences, and piles and piles of work on broken, bleeding feet, it’s all I have to give.
I toss my phone into the cupholder and head toward my favorite takeout place—Murray’s Pub—to drown my exhaustion in grease. Fried chicken, a burger, potato skins—it all sounds good. I think I’ll order it all and welcome the indigestion as the antidote to overthinking.
The lot is half full when I pull in, most of the spaces filled by expensive black cars and SUVs. It’s not commonplace per se, but the greater Boston area is far wealthier than most people realize. I have an inside track because of my everyday work digging through their financials, but I’m still a little surprised to find them here, slumming it with the commonfolk.
Bleeping my locks, I smile to myself about the suited crowd I’m bound to find inside, and ready myself for several encounters with the same personality.
Miss, where’s my order? I said on the side, not on the top! I’ve been waiting for ten minutes, for God’s sake!
The bell chimes over my head as I step inside the neon-sign-adorned lobby area, dusting the gravel off my boots on the black rubber mat. I push my hair out of my face and unbutton my coat, weaving through a crowd of people waiting for a table and heading straight for the counter to put in my to-go order.
The clientele is exactly as I expected—though pretty overtly male in an angering sort of way—and I shake my head at the feminist voice inside my head. Maybe it’s not that women aren’t wealthy too—they’re just eating somewhere that doesn’t clog their arteries quite as quickly.
I focus on Gemma, my favorite do-it-all gal behind the counter, willing her to come to me with her little pad and pencil and leave all these other people to fend for themselves.