Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“Actually, no. I have a proposition of sorts.”
A proposition?
Why does that sound like the start of a sex contract or something? Oh god, it’s not that. My mind is jumping to conclusions because I wish it were a sex contract. Hell, at this point, any contract might get Helen off my back.
“Oh?” I ask, hoping to sound only mildly curious.
“Yeah. I’ll just cut to the chase. Basically, I’ll let you sell me a house, but you have to do something for me first.”
Sex.
He wants lots and lots of blowjobs. Oh god, I’m starring in a low-rent porno.
Or worse…
He wants my organs.
That’s fine. He can harvest all of them if he’ll let me sell him a house. I imagine it now: in a week I’ll stroll into Helen’s office and announce I’ve sold a huge house. She’ll beam and ask me how I did it, and I’ll lift up my shirt and show her the scar from which they took my kidney.
“Madeleine?” Adam asks. “Did I lose you?”
I laugh because he’s done the exact opposite.
Without hesitation, I reply in earnest, “Adam Foxe, whatever you want, you have yourself a deal.”
CHAPTER NINE
MADELEINE
I forgot to ask Adam what he needs me to do for him. I just accepted his proposal and hung up before he could go into details. Armed robbery, midnight séances, free tax preparation—I’m prepared for anything. I even consider for a moment that he might be asking for help at the veterinary practice, so I watched a cow birthing video on YouTube and only threw up in my mouth once. That’s how badly I want to sell him a house.
Friday night, I’m sitting at Daisy’s house with Mouse, watching old movies and scrolling through Tinder profiles. Daisy likes doing it with me since she never used dating apps herself.
“Oh, God no!” she says, swiping past yet another prospective mate.
“He wasn’t half bad!” I snap, trying desperately to claw the phone out of her hand.
“He was posing in front of a cherry red Corvette in his profile picture. What kind of guy does that?”
Sure, his picture screamed insecure douchebag, but if I swiped past every guy who didn’t perfectly meet my specifications, it would just be me and Mouse growing old together.
Daisy doesn’t believe me.
“There are going to be better prospects, you just wait.”
My phone buzzes in her hand with an incoming text and from the look on her face, I know it’s not from my mom. Since I’m currently with her, I know it’s not from Daisy, and that rules out the only two people who text me on a regular basis.
“One new text from Adam Foxe?!” she exclaims.
I try, yet again, to snatch the phone away from her, but she holds it over her head. Mouse leaps to his feet and starts to bark, assuming this is all some spontaneous game.
“Hand over the phone, Daisy,” I snap in a very authoritative, very no-nonsense tone.
It only makes her laugh as she starts to read the text aloud.
“Hey Madeleine, it’s Adam. I’ll pick you up at your place tomorrow around 11:30 AM.”
I pretend not to care, sitting very still with my arms crossed on the other end of the couch. She can read all the text messages she wants; she’s not going to get any information out of me.
“Adam is texting you.”
“Yes.”
“Adam the vet?”
I shrug.
“Why is he texting you? And why is he picking you up tomorrow?”
I’m very good at the silent game—being the younger sister to a brother as annoying as mine meant it was an absolute necessity as a child.
“And why did he put a kissy-face and heart-eyes emoji?”
“Really?”
“Ha! That was a trick. So is he taking you out on a date or what?”
I pretend to pick dirt out from beneath my nails. Then I shine them on my shoulder.
“You’re not being funny,” she says, finally tossing my phone back to me.
“Ha!” I snap as I open the text again and read it for myself. It reads exactly as she’d recited, sans kissy-faces. I’m slightly disappointed that he isn’t revealing more information.
I decide to push my luck and text him back.
Madeleine: What if I’m busy tomorrow afternoon?
Daisy leaps off the couch and leans over my shoulder so she can try to read what I’m typing. I block her view just as my phone vibrates again. He replied quickly, faster than most guys usually do. Normally I have to sit and stare at my phone for at least thirty minutes before guys get around to texting me back, usually more. It’s torture, and I’m glad Adam doesn’t try to play those stupid games. Then it hits me that maybe he does play those games with girls he’s actually interested in. It’s not like we’re texting about an actual date after all.
Adam: Then unfortunately, there’s no deal.
Madeleine: Wow. Is this like a Chicago mobster thing? Are we sinking a body into Lake Michigan?