Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“Why don’t you drive?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I don’t have a car.”
“I do,” you say, “but my father’s an asshole. He thinks if I have my car, I’ll skip my classes.”
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
She laughs, and you give her a smile, as a black car approaches the school—a limo.
“So, Garfield, huh?” you say. “Like the cat?”
“More like the former president.”
“You got a first name to go with it?”
“Kennedy.”
You give her the strangest look. “You’re kidding.”
“My middle name’s Reagan, you know, to bring it all full circle.”
“Ah, man, that’s fucking rough. Here I thought I had it bad being a Cunningham.”
“Like the current Speaker of the House?”
“Also known as the asshole who took my car keys,” you say. “You can call me Jonathan.”
“Jonathan.”
You smile when she says your name.
The limo pulls up, and you look at it, hesitating, like maybe some part of you doesn’t want to leave her alone there.
Or maybe your reluctance has more to do with who awaits you.
Speaker Grant Cunningham.
The back window rolls down, and there the man is, his attention on something in his hands as he says, “Get in the car, John. I have things to do.”
His voice carries not an ounce of warmth. He doesn’t even look at you.
You glance back at the girl before getting in the limo, while she turns back to her notebook.
And you don’t know this, but that girl? The one left outside of that school alone? She’s sitting there writing about you. You have all the makings of a modern-day tragic hero, and she’s never felt so compelled to explore somebody’s story before… even if that’s kind of creepy, ugh.
Chapter 3
KENNEDY
“Kennedy, oh my god, you won’t believe the night I had!”
Those are the first words Bethany says when she strolls in the store twenty minutes late Saturday morning, as I scan somebody’s groceries on her register, doing her job instead of my own. I stopped by on my day off to finish up some paperwork for Marcus and want nothing more than to get the heck back out, but no such luck.
“What happened?” I ask. “Did you sneak on set?”
“No,” she says. “Got close to it, though. Real close. I even got to see him in the suit!”
“That’s nice,” I mumble, although it doesn’t feel nice to me. No, it’s making my stomach gurgle, my insides clenching and doing horrible things.
“It was… wow.” Bethany lets out a squeal as I finish ringing up Mrs. McKleski’s groceries and take her money. The woman shops here every single day. Today’s purchase? Chocolate cream pie ingredients. “We stood around all day but it was so worth it! Serena came out to see us. She was so nice, oh my god… I expected her to be super bitchy, you know, because people talk, but she took pictures and was joking around!”
“That’s nice,” I say again—and once more, it doesn’t feel that way. I’m feeling a bit sick in the stomach about it all, as absurd as that is. “I’m glad she made your trip worthwhile.”
“Oh, it wasn’t her—it was totally him,” she says. “We found Johnny Cunning coming out of some bar later. He actually talked to us. Oh my god, he was nicer than I expected him to be, and talk about dreamy!”
Bethany shoves her phone in my face, forcing me to look at the screen, at a picture she took of the two of them, a cheap hole-in-the-wall bar visible in the background. I can tell he’d been trying to go unnoticed, but he smiles for the camera. It doesn’t look like he’s drunk, but well… he’s at a bar.
“He asked where I was from,” she says, “and he laughed when I told him they tell stories about him here. He wanted to know what people say, so I told him about the naked one, you know, at the park? You know that story, right?”
“Vaguely,” I mumble.
“Well, get this! Not only is it true, he really got arrested, but he said he’d been there with a girl! Can you believe that?”
I give Mrs. McKleski her change and offer her a smile when I see the knowing look in her eyes. She says nothing—thank god—as she leaves. There are a few people in town to which these aren’t just stories… they’re memories. It was only a few years ago, but life moves on. Bethany would’ve been just a kid when these things happened, not old enough to know anything about the troubled son of a politician. She only knows the actor he came to be, the one who has nothing to do with his family.
“That’s nice,” I say for the third time, and this time I know, without a doubt, I don’t mean it. There’s nothing nice about how I’m feeling. “You’re already thirty minutes late, so I need you to clock in.”