Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 25098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
But Sam doesn’t notice.
“Hell no. Why would I want to compromise on something I could potentially live in for the next fifty years? Her opinion isn’t important.”
Oh wow, what a self-centered prick. Not only that, but Sam’s looking bad right now. There’s a sheen of sweat on his upper lip and his skin is a bit clammy and pale. Could it be the drink at Sam’s elbow? He ordered a cocktail as soon as we stepped through the front door and has been taking liberal gulps. But I try to keep the conversation going.
“Yes, but your wife has to live in it for fifty years too,” I point out.
Sam shrugs while wiping at his nose again.
“I’m the one who’s fronting the cash. She’ll be lucky to live in it with me.”
My brow scrunches.
“You mean, you want her to stay somewhere else?”
He rolls his eyes.
“No, that’s not what I mean at all. All I’m saying is that my wife will be appreciative of my generosity and won’t feel the need to change a thing,” he explains slowly as if I’m a child. “In fact, she’ll feel lucky to have a husband like me with so much money that she’ll be able to do what she wants. I’ll even let her decorate it. She can go shopping every day for all I care, so it’ll be a sweet existence.”
Then, Samuel looks at his phone and types before putting it down and taking out his handkerchief and wiping under his nose for the umpteenth time. What’s going on? Does he have a cold? I’m seriously starting to suspect that he’s under the weather, and that he decided to come out and potentially infect me anyways.
I’m feeling pissed now, and as Samuel prattles on, his skin becomes more and more pale. As I watch, a bead of sweat slides down his temple, and then another. The guy looks like he’s melting, and he’s mopping at his brow like an old man. But then that’s when I see it. There’s a tell-tale trace of white powder at the corner of one nostril and suddenly, I know why Samuel’s so puffy and clammy, not to mention wiping his nose every other second. My date is on drugs at this very moment, and it’s not pretty to see. Suddenly, he jerks in his seat.
“Um I need to use the restroom. I’ll be right back.” Then in a rush, he shoves his chair back and practically runs to the men’s room.
Under my breath, I mutter, “Can’t wait. Please don’t come back soon.”
Little do I know how accurate my words are because I sit at the table by myself for a really long time, feeling bored. At first, I figure Sam’s just having excruciating bowel movements and needs privacy. Then, I figure he’s on the phone and talking with someone. But after half an hour passes, during which the waiter asks me if I need anything no less than four times, I ask the server to intervene.
“My date has been in the men’s room for a while now. Is there someone at the restaurant who can check on him?”
The waiter bows slightly, as if this happens all the time.
“Certainly, Miss. I’ll go myself and see if Mr. Coleman needs anything.”
The middle-aged man disappears into the men’s room and comes out immediately, looking pale. Then, he waves his manager over and whispers in the other man’s ear. The manager nods, looking concerned before pulling out his phone and dialing. He’s talking rapidly to whomever is on the end of the line. Then the manager looks around the restaurant, spies me and hurries over with an apologetic look.
“Miss, there seems to be a problem, but let’s not discuss it here. Could you come to my office, s’il vous plait?”
I sit and blink for several seconds, and then snap out of my haze and stand. I’m confused about this request and concerned about Samuel too. He may be an asswipe, but I don’t want him to die on me. Grabbing my handbag, I follow the manager.
Once we’re in his office in the basement, the older man is solicitous. He shuts the door before gesturing for me to take a seat before a small metal desk. I’m silent, different scenarios running through my head about what happened to Samuel. This can’t be good.
“What is it?” I manage in a careful voice. “What’s wrong with Mr. Coleman?”
The manager sighs.
“I’m afraid we found Mr. Coleman unconscious on the bathroom floor when we checked on him. He probably fell and hit his head because he was lying in a pool of blood.” I gasp, and the manager nods again. “Don’t worry, there wasn’t any foul play. He probably just knocked his noggin on the sink on the way down. He’s breathing, but unfortunately, we haven’t been able to revive him so far. But never fear: an ambulance has been called, and I expect it to be here any minute.” At that moment, there’s the faint wail of sirens, and the manager starts. “Please excuse me, Miss. That must be them.”