Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
Mrs. Ames—I assume—doesn’t say anything for a moment.
Then, with a calm voice, she states, “I can’t read your mind, Garrett.”
“Then forget about your fucking charities,” he barks, “and overhaul the pool and patio this winter. How about that? You should be consistently redecorating to stay up to date, Ava. Once everyone else’s house looks like ours, then you redecorate again. Is that clear?”
His condescending sneer makes me want to hammer him into the swamp bed.
And I like their pool.
A door slams, and then a drawer shuts. I don’t fuck around for another second. Hauling up the hose, I carry it back to the wheelbarrow, avoiding Army as he gathers all the garden tools.
I throw Callum Ames another look, but he’s turned his attention to the girl at his side. His body still faces me, though, like it’s following me.
“You remember what this is?” a man’s voice calls.
I twist my head just in time to see Callum’s father, Garrett Ames, step onto the pool deck.
He swipes a football off the grass and launches it at his son above. He doesn’t stop walking or look back to see Callum just catch it before it hits him in the face.
The conversation in the pool quiets, and I steal a glance, noting Callum’s tight lips and flexed shoulders. He clenches his jaw, shoving the football behind him, like it’s burned his hand.
I don’t shake my head or smile, but I want to. Rich boys get treated like shit, too, and I’m glad he knows that I know that. Every single one of these fucking people thinks everyone else wants to be them, but anyone can make money. Anyone can buy the life. They don’t ride around in hot cars and make friends with the right people or go to the top universities because they want to. They do it because they don’t have a choice. That’s not freedom.
Garrett Ames drifts around the lawn, talking on his phone, and I’m about to leave and take the rest of our shit out of here when I see his fifteen-year-old stepdaughter skip over to him.
She wears a two-piece like all the other girls, but hers has yellow flowers on it, and her hair has a matching ribbon on top of her head, holding locks away from her face. I don’t know why it catches my attention. Just seems weird. Like a fetish outfit or something.
“Daddy?” She beams up at him. “Can we borrow the driver tonight? We want to go for ice cream.”
He turns, holding his phone to his ear, and smiles at her. “Ice cream…” he says as if he doesn’t believe her, but he’ll still let her have anything she wants.
Unlike Callum, who he’s not happy with for whatever reason.
She steps closer to him, and I can’t hear what they say, but then his hand brushes her hair and moves slowly down her arm.
I pause.
He’s not touching anything inappropriate, but it’s a…
It’s a fucking caress. Am I the only one seeing this?
I look around, everyone in the pools in their own worlds, and then I dart my eyes up to Callum.
The girl with him is gone and he watches his father and stepsister talk and smile at each other.
Then he shifts his gaze to me. We’re twenty feet away from each other, and I can make out his midnight-blue eyes now. His dark blond hair is already streaked from the sun as it lies across his forehead, still damp from his swim, and I don’t think he can tell from this distance if I’m looking at his face or his neck or his arms or his stomach. Nice body. I wonder if he knows how to use it.
Sliding my attention back to the father and daughter, I see her bounce back to her friends, and he resumes his call, nothing else indicating that anything was weird between them. Maybe she’s just a daddy’s girl?
I look up at the golden boy again, an idea occurring to me. He’s been staring at me for ten minutes. If he has me alone, maybe he’d like a closer look.
I tip my chin at the potted palm on his balcony. “Want me to tend to that plant before I go?” I ask.
He holds my gaze for a few seconds. “Come up,” he says.
Entering through one of the patio doors, I head down a white hallway of marble and gold trim everywhere. Gold mirrors, gold picture frames, gold trinkets. The floors shine, and as I come up on a stairwell to my right, I look up to the second and third floors, imagining a definitive death for anyone who falls. Everything is clean and bright and hard, and for a second, I’m a little more forgiving toward Macon and Army. I could always sit on the furniture, and nothing ever felt cold in our house.