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)
“This is generational money,” Rupert says, sweeping his gaze around the office as if he’s not seen it a million times. “My wife’s family. Her father and her grandfather were inventors. They’ve held over three hundred patents for surgical instruments and other medical devices. She’s an only child, and her father died before he could disown her for marrying me.” Rupert squints out the window before grinning, taking another sip of his drink. “My dad worked in the automotive industry, and he drank. A lot.” He holds out his glass and stares at the remaining ounce before swirling it. “Then one day, he crossed three lanes of interstate, killing my mother, younger brother, and four others in a head-on collision with a passenger van. He lived only to die years later in prison from a heart attack. It was the best day of my life.”
I shake my head. “You know nothing about me, but thanks for that heartwarming story.”
“Flynn, do you think I’d bring you into my home and offer you a job without doing my homework? Flynn Oren Morley. Twenty-five. No high school diploma. In foster care from age three. Eighteen months in juvie. One year in jail for felony grand theft. Two years for assault. You have thirty-seven dollars in a bank account. No credit cards. You’ve worked at the same detail shop for the past three years, and your boss (whom I’ve known and respected for years) thinks highly of you despite your taking a customer’s car for a joyride on more than one occasion. In his words, ‘You’ve found Jesus.’ Did I miss anything?”
“Blood type?” I ask.
“B positive.” He sets his empty glass aside and crosses his arms. After a beat he grins.
“O negative.” I give him the middle finger.
Rupert shrugs. “It was short notice. Give me another day or so and I’ll know how many times you’ve sold sperm and plasma to pay for food and tobacco.”
“I don’t use tobacco. It’s not, what Jesus would do,” I say, but I make a mental note to check into selling my sperm. If I can get paid to jerk off, what’s the point of ever looking for another job?
“Good to know, Flynn. But I reserve the right to drug test you whenever I see fit,” he says.
“Whatever, dude. What’s the deal with your wife?”
He scratches his clean-shaven jaw. “She needs a muse.”
After a beat, I nod slowly.
“Do you know what a muse is?” he asks.
“Of course, I do.”
Nope. Not a clue.
“Great. You’ll hang out with her.”
“You know I already have a job. Right? And I have an interview next week for a mechanic at Smith’s.”
“You did. But now you have me and only one job option.”
“What? No. Dude, I’ve been waiting forever. And I finally have a shot at this job with Smith’s. Sorry I made your weak heart skip a few beats by taking your car for a little joyride, but you don’t own me.”
“Very well. We’ll let the police handle it.” He grabs his phone from the desk, taps the screen several times, then brings it to his ear.
Goddammit!
“Stop,” I say, rubbing my forehead before blowing out a hard breath. “What does this muse thing pay?”
He pushes off the desk, then slides his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Flynn, as long as you do your job for me, I will take care of everything you need. If you don’t do your job for me, then you still won’t need money because you’ll be in jail. Questions before I introduce you to my wife?”
“How long do I have to work for you?”
“Until my wife finds inspiration.”
“Inspiration for what?”
He heads toward the door. “To live.”
Chapter Two
Flynn
“Ya ever thought about renovating this place?” I ask as we climb the split staircase to the second floor. This house looks like it should have velvet ropes and plaques that explain its dull history. Everything is hand-carved wood, stone, and decorative moldings. No carpet, just huge Oriental rugs and marble steps that echo every time his polished shoes hit them.
I slow my pace, neck stretched toward the stained-glass dome skylight high above the stairs.
“This was one of the first houses built in—” Rupert begins the history lesson.
“Modern society?” I ask, cutting him off.
The artwork on the walls feels like fifty different variations of the Mona Lisa. Perhaps his rich wife is a descendant of Mona, and these are photos of their bloodline.
He glances over his shoulder just as we reach the second floor. “One of the first houses built in this area. Most owners have extensively remodeled their homes. Some have torn them down and replaced them with new construction.” He continues down the wide hallway lined with more paintings and a few narrow tables holding vases and sculptures of naked people with no heads.
Where’s the television? Foosball table? A treadmill? It’s hard to imagine something as modern as a golf simulator in the basement.