Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
"This is better," I announced as we moved inside, the light streaming through the blinds on the sliding door to a very tiny balcony out back. The carpet was a deep brown, as was the stain on the head and footboards of the two full-sized beds. The sheets and comforter were stark white, telling anyone who happened upon them that the owners were quite fond of bleach. Which was always a comforting thought. The TV across from the bed was newer, flat, and though it was on the small side, a good brand.
"Probably trying to redo the place room by room," he agreed, waving at the seemingly freshly painted striped brown and off-white wall behind the beds.
"Oh, wow," I breathed out as I pulled the blinds on the sliding doors, seeing the view for the first time. "I never would have realized how pretty Wyoming is if not for this," I remarked as Gunner moved in beside me, both of us looking off at the mountain range in the distance. "It's strange."
"What is?"
"How eye-opening this whole experience has been," I admitted. "I lived in such a shell. I mean, yeah, there is a lot of culture in the city. It's a real melting pot. But you don't get to see things like this, experience small-town hospitality, see the hard work and pride people put into their small businesses. Like this hotel. I never would have thought of myself as sheltered before. But I guess I was."
"Tomorrow you'll get to see some of the red rocks in Utah," he told me, sounding like he was excited to show that to me. Or maybe that was my imagination. It was getting hard to tell what was true and what was wishful thinking as time went on.
"Have you seen them before?" I asked, wanting to know more about him.
"Yeah. You'd be hard-pressed to find much of this country that I haven't seen at least once."
"Do you like traveling?"
"Depends on to where. And the company." He made the comments sound final, but a moment later, went on. "I'm not a fan of the south in the dead of summer. They have a different fucking sun down there, I swear. And the bugs and snakes and shit. Not my bag. But aside from that..."
"So no Alabama in August. What about the cold states in winter?"
"Snowboarding in Vermont is the shit. Haven't done it in a few years, but I will take the cold over the scorching heat any damn day. Besides, ever have real apple cider donuts from an actual cider mill?" he asked, waiting for me to shake my head. "Gotta try it at least once in life," he told me, then his face fell when I felt mine do the same.
Because I wasn't going to be allowed to travel.
At least not for years.
Maybe not even then.
It depended a lot on what happened with Rodrigo Cortez.
"Maybe there is a cider mill in Nevada somewhere," I said, but there was skepticism in my voice. I mean, most apples came from the east coast, not the midwest. But they had to have some, right? Hopefully. Because now I was sure life would never be complete without an apple from a real cider mill.
"Tomorrow we got to start work on your identity. Learn the shit like the back of your hand," he told me, moving away. And it felt like a wall.
As the night and the next day would show, that was exactly what it was.
The only speaking we did was about Sloane Livingston, about her past, about her likes, her interests, her friends, family, previous work experience.
About eight hours into getting quizzed about her, I could feel myself starting to resent this person that didn't actually exist, that I would have to learn to be.
Silly, yes, but undeniable.
It was like my mind had decided to hate her in defense of Sloane Blythe-Meuller, the person I had always been allowed to be, for better or worse.
"Alright. I'll let it drop for a while," he told me as we settled into a hotel in Utah.
This one was clearly recently redone. And maybe just a tad bit too modern. I hadn't been sure there was such a thing. But when the bed didn't look like someplace that you wanted to rest on, you knew you took your HGTV obsession a step or five too far. Everything was stark, eye-aching white with very sharp lines - and corners. I actually rammed my leg into the side of the bed, creating a decent gash that bled like crazy, and put me in an even more surly mood.
Gunner seemed to be faring no better, mumbling under his breath as he tried to unmake the bed a bit so he could get in it.
"Not a fan, huh?" I asked as I put a on band-aid that Gunner had provided from a small first-aid kit he apparently carried at all times.