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)
Kennedy’s bedroom.
She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, changed out of her work uniform, wearing sweats and a tank top, busy pulling her hair up. I stall when I reach the doorway, still lurking in the hall, not wanting to invade her space. She eyes me warily, her attention shifting to the doll I’m holding.
She laughs.
Yeah, she fucking laughs.
“Did she make you perform for her?” she asks, nodding to the doll.
“No, she actually made me be Barbie,” I say. “I don’t think she was that impressed with my skills, because she gave up and went back to drawing.”
Another laugh.
I could listen to that sound forever.
“Don’t take it personal,” she says, brushing past me out of the bedroom. “I’m sure you did a better job than I do. I usually get demoted to an audience member.”
Kennedy heads to the living room. I follow her, curious, as she settles in on the couch, turning on the television. She curls up, flipping through channels in silence, the room dim. The sun is setting outside, which means they’ll soon be going to bed.
“Do you work every day?” I ask.
“Weekdays.”
“So you have weekends off?”
“Usually,” she says. “I work while Maddie’s in school.”
“And when you’re not working? What do you do?”
She cuts her eyes at me like I’m stupid.
I’m guessing this is it.
“I should probably get going,” I say, strolling back to Madison’s bedroom, finding her still drawing. “Hey, Maddie.”
“Huh?”
“I’m gonna go now.”
She stops what she’s doing. “Why?”
“Because it’s getting late.”
“But why can’t you stay?”
Because I fucked up years ago and I don’t know if I can ever make things right again.
“I just can’t,” I say. “But I’ll come back.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Uh, not tomorrow, but soon.”
“When soon?”
“First chance I get, I’ll be here.”
“Okay,” she says, turning back to her drawing. "Bye!"
“Bye, Maddie.”
Kennedy eyes me warily when I walk back into the living room.
“I have to head back to the city in the morning,” I say, hesitating near the front door.
“You’re leaving already,” she says, a sharpness to her words. It’s almost accusatory. “Should’ve known.”
“I’m coming back.”
“I’m sure you are.”
I don’t think she believes me.
As much as I want to stay and convince her, I know she won’t believe me until I prove myself, so I leave the apartment, closing the door, and stand there until I hear her locking up.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite client…”
I stall in the doorway of McKleski’s kitchen the moment those words strike me. Cliff. Morning sunshine streams through the downstairs of the inn, already warming the place to uncomfortable levels, because the old broad doesn’t believe in air conditioning. Cliff sits at the kitchen table, eating what looks like an omelet, eyes glued to the Blackberry beside his plate.
McKleski is busy doing dishes across the room, scrubbing a pan she obviously used to cook for him this morning. What the hell?
“Are you talking to me?” I ask, not entirely sure at this point.
“Who else would I be talking to?”
“I don’t know,” I mumble, sitting down across from him. “Could be anybody.”
He looks at me, eyes carefully scanning my face. I know what he’s looking for. The signs. I’m pretty sure I look like hell. I haven’t even bothered to shave. But he’s not going to see them today, not going to see the signs. I want to say fuck him for thinking he might, but I can’t really blame him for the suspicion, can I?
I’ve fucked up plenty of times.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Sober,” I mumble.
“I can see that,” he says. “Otherwise?”
“Kind of tired.” I glance at his plate. “Kind of hungry.”
“I’m sure your lovely hostess would be happy to whip you up some breakfast.”
“No,” McKleski chimes in. “I wouldn’t.”
“Or not,” Cliff says, taking the last bite of his omelet, not even fazed.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I don’t need anybody to take care of me. I can fend for myself.”
Cliff drops his fork. “If that was true, I’d be out of a job.”
“Whatever. What are you even doing here? How’d you figure out where I was staying?”
“It’s a small town,” he says. “There weren’t many options. And I’m here because you haven’t been answering your phone, so I wasn’t sure if you remembered you had an appointment. Figured I'd tag along so you didn't have to go alone.”
“I remembered,” I say. “And thanks.”
“But for the record, if you’d finally hire a new assistant, I wouldn’t have to concern myself with your schedule. It’s been over a year since you’ve had anyone helping you. I still don’t understand why you fired the last guy.”
“He was a crackhead.”
“And you were a cokehead.”
“He stole from me.”
“What did he steal? Your drugs?”
I’m not going to dignify that with a response.
It’s true, but still… fuck that assumption.
“Can we go?” I ask. “I want to get this day over with.”
“Huh, thought you were less of a moody prick these days.”