Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Only for the key to not turn.
I give the door a gentle shove. Then a less than gentle shove. Then a not-gentle-at-all shove. Won’t budge. When I try taking the key out, I find it’s stuck. I wiggle it. Yank on it. Twist and fondle it like I’m trying to turn it on. Then I recommit full-force to turning the damned key, desperate for it to work. What do I have to do to get this door open? “Listen, you sexy little key.” I’ve resorted to sweet-talking it. “I’m out here in the open for anyone passing by to snap a shot of and report to one of the millions of people looking for me—and that is not a good thing. So it would be super-duper swell if you could do your one job and just open this door. Can you do that? Can you do that for daddy?”
It doesn’t reply.
Thankfully. Otherwise we’d have other problems.
I spot two guys on bicycles turning the corner, heading down the road nearby. On my other side, a car just stopped at the intersection and seems to be stalling. I don’t know if they’re staring at me. I can’t tell because their windows are too tinted. They could be live streamers and followed me here, and I was too careless to notice. Or they’re just locals who swear they know me from somewhere but can’t put their finger on it. Yet. I’m cursed with distinctively high cheekbones no set of shades can hide. Even my posture is unique—my unmistakable too-cool-for-school slouch the photographers can’t get enough of. It was the bane of my existence back in school, and now I get paid for it.
I can’t be recognized. I need to get inside this house.
On another note, this would be pretty exciting and fun, were my circumstances not so dire. Isn’t this just like a role I always wanted? Man on the run, no one to trust, each and every corner lurks a suspicious face. I once dreamed a role like that would be what leads to me standing on a stage with a tiny gold-plated naked man in my grip thanking my mother and my “team” and then cracking some joke about the music playing me off because my speech is too long.
Dreams of that speech are out the window now.
With renewed determination, I grab that key and twist it even harder—and it snaps right off, leaving me with a nub of metal pinched between my shaking fingers.
If I didn’t look like a burglar before, I sure do now.
Giving up on the front door and the imaginary crowd I swear is forming behind me, I make my way around to the side of the bungalow—Hey, there’s a porch swing, nice—and sidestep to the back door. I whip off my shades, cup my eyes, and press my face to the six-paned window on the door. I can barely see inside, but I don’t spot anyone.
Fun fact: I actually did play the role of a burglar once in this low-budget indie film, many years ago in my early twenties, fresh out of school, and I remember thinking how stupidly burglars are always written.
That’s what I’m thinking right now as I peel off my hoodie, wrap my whole arm in it, and elbow the window, breaking the lower-right pane of glass. I reach through its shattered remains and unlock the door, letting myself in.
I brush aside the glass on the floor with my boot before shutting the door behind me. There’s a kitchen to my left with outdated everything, except for the fridge which looks out of place with its shiny, new-looking door, and long windows overlooking the rocky shore. On the counter next to the fridge sits a case of water bottles. To the right is a circular teak table surrounded by matching chairs, and the one nearest to me wobbles when I set my backpack onto it along with my hoodie after unwrapping it from my arm. A wide archway leads into the front room, which has a couch, coffee table, and a 50-or-so-inch TV mounted on the wall with paintings hung on either side of it, everything beach-colored—sandy beige paired with all shades of sky blue to saltwater green, all of it kinda going together and clashing at the same time. On the coffee table sits a large gift basket of fruit and goodies from local stores next to a bottle of sparkling wine, which rests atop a handwritten letter:
To Mr. Cal Mason: Welcome to your Breezy Bungalow and thank you for choosing us to take care of you! Inside the basket, you will find menus from our local eateries who deliver to your door contact-free, including grocery stores. If there is anything you need, contact the housing manager at our direct line listed below or swing by the main office located just down the road within walking distance. As an added token of our deepest appreciation, please do enjoy these complimentary passes to the Hopewell Fair during your stay. All the best, Brooke Hopewell.