Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Johnsonville Sheriff’s Department needs to speak to you.”
Home. Last I knew my mom was down in New Jersey. Maybe it’s not about her. “What happened?”
“They wouldn’t tell us. Need to speak to you.” He stops in front of a shiny, dark wood door I’ve probably passed a dozen times but never bothered to open and see what’s inside. “We can’t monitor the call, but same rules apply. You can’t discuss the show or—”
“Give me a fuckin’ break. You think my local sheriff’s office gives a fuck about the filming of some random reality show they’ve never heard of?”
An extra wrinkle forms on his forehead and he shifts his gaze. I’m too worried about what might be wrong at home to give a fuck about interpreting his expression.
He presses his palm to a flat square above the doorknob and the door clicks. “Yeah, well, I’m obligated to remind you about the rules any time there’s outside contact.”
“Bro, I’m worried my mom might be dead. Giving the secrets of the show away are the last fucking thing on my mind.”
His eyes widen and he backs away. “Uh, shoot. Sorry. Yeah. Take your time.” He pushes the door wider and lifts his chin. Inside the room, black filing cabinets line one wall. A simple, dark brown wooden desk with a leather chair sits to my left. The desk is empty except for an old, black corded phone.
“Line one,” Jordan says. “When you’re done just hang up and leave. Door will lock behind you. I’ll be down in the editing room if you need me.”
I give him a blank look. I have no idea where that is. I stick to a few main areas of the house. Haven’t bothered exploring anywhere but the gym, common area, kitchen, my room, and wherever they tell us to show up to film.
“It’s right off the poolside gym downstairs,” he explains.
Ahh, the area where Deadass, Naptime, and the other tool bags hang out. No wonder I’ve never been there.
“All right.” I stare at him until he finally walks past me, his slim figure receding down the long, white hallway. A flicker of caution keeps me rooted in place. I don’t trust him not to double back and listen in on my conversation.
When I’m sure I’m alone, I hurry into the office and close the door behind me.
I snap the receiver off the phone and hit the blinking red button. “Hello?”
“Griff! That you? Thank God.”
“Jerry?” I frown. My boss at the garage? Why’d he tell the show he was a cop? “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Shit, is he calling to fire me? He said he was fine with me taking the time off of work. Did that change?
“I’m fine. But I got a problem here at the garage,” Jerry says. “I called Remy and he’s on his way over, but the cops are here and need to talk to you.”
Shit. “What’s going on?”
“Give me a second, would ya?” Jerry shouts to someone.
Anxiety spikes my blood. “Jerry, what’s wrong?”
The background noise eases and in a quieter voice, Jerry says, “The car you and Molly were restoring. It’s wrecked, Griff. One of the other guys opened the shop today, saw the mess, and thought we had a break-in. They called the sheriff. I woulda called you first and not involved law—”
Wait. Someone wrecked Molly’s car? “What are you talking about?”
“The damage is bad but fixable,” Jerry explains. “Cops wanna get a statement from you and ask if you want to press charges—”
“Let me talk to him,” Remy growls in the background.
Muffled voices go back and forth. “Stall them for me?” Remy asks.
A few seconds later, Remy’s voice bursts over the line.
“You motherfucker,” he seethes. “What did I tell you?”
“Remy?” Why is he mad at me because someone wrecked Molly’s car? If Jerry won’t let me repair the car at the garage, I’ll do it at Remy’s place. “I’ll fix the car when I get home. It’s not a big deal.”
“What did I tell you when you said you wanted to date my sister?” he yells.
Remy’s apparently lost his mind, so I play along. “Uh, don’t get her pregnant?”
“Don’t hurt her. I said don’t fucking hurt her. You promised.”
Does he think I somehow wrecked the car? “Remy, I’m not even there—”
“I’m aware. We’re all aware of where you are.”
“I’ll fix the car—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the fucking car.”
Now he’s starting to piss me off. “What the fuck’s going on? Is Molly okay? I’m sorry the car got wrecked, but goddamn, I’m doing this stupid show for Molly.”
He laughs. A cold, hollow sound that expresses exactly how pissed he is. But why? Over a car? Some stupid kids probably vandalized it.
“Doing what for her?” Remy asks in a low, deadly calm voice. “Fucking skanks on television? Because I gotta say, she wasn’t real impressed.”