Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Holy shit. I actually said it.
Frank’s face, in particular, looks like someone just threatened him with a knife. Don’t worry, Frankie. I can’t believe I said it either.
Mr. Perish surveys me closely, his knowledgeable brown eyes looking for something I’m not sure I know how to convey. And the conference room is so quiet that all I can hear is the pounding of my heart roaring inside my ears.
The clock on the wall, above Jonah Perish’s head, ticks through the seconds, and it feels like the seconds turn to minutes. Many, many minutes. But Jonah remains stoic, and I can’t get a read on him while he’s trying to get a read on me, and it is an otherwise psychological mindfuck.
It reminds me of the time I egged Bobby Tubertille’s house when I was fourteen, and my dad spent the night interrogating me and every other kid on my street. His glare was so hard I could feel it in my spine. But I didn’t break then, and I’m not going to break now. My insides may be vibrating themselves into Jell-O, but I’m not backing down.
I want Longstrand to publish this book. Brooke Baker deserves for Longstrand to stand behind her, even if she went off script and gave us something that wasn’t in the contract.
“All right, Dawson,” Jonah finally announces. “We’ll stand behind your decision. But I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into and just how much it’ll cost all of us if you’re wrong.”
His meaning is clear as crystal. The price for Longstrand will be money. The price for me? A very bloody end to my entire career.
I nod. It’s all I can manage with a lump the size of Texas in my throat.
“Good. Now that that’s settled, what’s next?” Mr. Perish directs, thankfully moving the attention away from me before anyone notices the sweat that is most likely dripping from every pore of my body.
Clearly, though, I’m happy. I’m thrilled. This is what I wanted. Brooke’s book deserves to be read, and I deserve the shot to prove it.
But, dear God, please help my body withstand the pressure.
Brooke
Belinda Carlisle plays from the boom box in the corner of my living room, and I scrub at the crusty food on the seat of my barstool. My pink vinyl gloves squeak against the wood with every wipe of my rag.
I’m not a neat freak in the traditional sense. In fact, I’m not nearly disciplined enough to be that steady in any aspect of my life. I mostly live in fits and starts, bingeing in my mess and then attacking the consequences like a woman possessed when the clutter overwhelms my sense of peace.
There’s a lot of other stuff infringing on my kumbaya vibes these days—one thing, in particular, that involves my publisher and a book I’m choosing not to think about, but for the sanctity of my survival, I’ve compartmentalized all that out of my thoughts and am choosing to fixate obsessively on cleaning and scrubbing my kitchen.
It’s called Advanced Avoidance, and I could teach a honors-level course at Harvard.
I toss the rag onto the countertop and round the tiny island only a New York apartment could call spacious, stepping to the sink in the corner. Bending to the cabinet underneath, I grab an industrial-strength cleaner that has the power to resurface almost anything. Or at least, that’s what the late-night informercial that convinced me to buy it said. Vinyl gloves still on, you know, because I’d like to keep my skin, I uncap the bottle and shoot the foam from the nozzle over every inch of exposed stainless steel of my sink. It coats it evenly and intensely, and I hack a cough from the potency of its chemical smell.
Then, I hack again.
And again.
“Shit!” I sputter through several choking coughs from my lungs. Tears coat my eyeballs when an abnormal sting wreaks havoc on my vision.
Fearful that I’m about to poison myself from toxic fumes, I stumble over to the window at the end of the counter and shove it open. I can hear Benji’s paws tap across the kitchen floor behind me, but I’m too busy hanging my head out the window and gasping for untainted oxygen. The air is stale in a way I’m used to after this many years in New York, but it’s still better than the vicious stuff I just sprayed in my kitchen.
A slight breeze blows past me and into the apartment, swirling the untouched air and setting some of the potency free. I fill my lungs with a few more breaths of NYC oxygen and wipe the tears from my eyes before carefully backing out of my window guillotine and pulling my gloves from my hands with a snap.
Suddenly, cleaning has lost some of its mystique. I can’t be sure if it’s from the health risks that I didn’t realize were involved, but it certainly didn’t help my motivation.