Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 26365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
I have to do something. I have to get out of here.
Maybe I should try to get back into real estate. I took the course, got my realtor license, but then it all fizzled out.
You need tons of money to get started. I needed money for marketing, ads, flyers, and to pay for photos of the houses before you even sell one. And who has money for all that?
I had business cards printed up and I left them in the back of taxi cabs to try and get some clients. Whenever someone had too much to drink and I called them a cab, I would walk them to the taxi and throw a card into the back when they weren’t looking. I figured if someone had enough money to pay for a cab, they might need a realtor.
It didn’t work. I got exactly zero calls.
And then summer hit, and the bar got busy, and my career as a real estate agent got pushed further and further back until it was so far in my rearview mirror that I couldn’t see it anymore.
The front door opens and a drunk guy staggers in. He looks like he’s in his late forties or early fifties, probably a divorced dad. You can tell by the bright white New Balance sneakers, cargo shorts, old green Polo shirt with the warped collar, and round belly.
He stumbles over to the bar and sits right in front of me.
“Hello, bleautiful,” he says, slurring his words.
“Hi.”
“I’ll take a beer,” he says with his eyes half closed, “and your phone number.”
A vile taste hits the back of my throat.
These are my options when it comes to men. Drunks, drunks, and more drunks.
“How about a piece of cake and then you leave?” I say with a forced smile.
“Is it your blirthday?” he says with a hiccup. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to be your daughter,” I say with a grin.
“I’ll tell you what,” he says as he pulls a deck of cards out of his cargo shorts. Why does he have a deck of cards? “If I blow your mind with a magical trick, you give me your number.”
I stare at him, more curious than anything.
“Has that ever worked for you?”
He doesn’t answer. He pulls out the deck and tries to shuffle, but he’s way too drunk. The cards explode out of his hands and rain down on me. A few land on the cake.
“What’s going on over here?” Lauren asks as she returns. “Playing fifty-two pick up?”
“Exactly,” I say with a laugh. “He’s fifty-two and he’s trying to pick me up.”
We both giggle as we take the cards off the cake.
“Here,” Lauren says as she puts a piece of cake in front of him. “Eat up and leave the magic to the professionals.”
The guy dives into the cake, making a mess all over his face with the pink frosting.
Where can I find a real man? Not in here, obviously.
I want someone accomplished and driven, but I’m realizing that I can’t exactly expect that in a partner if I don’t have it myself.
“Don’t despair, Norah,” Lauren says. She knows me too well. She can see it all over my face. “Things are going to look up for you. I can feel it.”
“Yeah,” I say, not believing it at all.
She gasps and grabs my wrist.
“What?”
She turns my hand over and pulls a card from the sleeve of my giant hoodie. My sweater is unzipped and hanging loose on my shoulders so a card must have slid into the armhole and fallen down it.
Her face lights up when she shows it to me.
An ace of hearts.
“An ace up your sleeve,” she says with her eyes lighting up. “It’s a sign.”
Lauren is always believing in stuff like that. I never thought that data scientists were the type to obsess over horoscopes, but here we are.
“A sign?”
She’s nodding like crazy. “A sign! Good things are about to happen. I told you!”
With a loud inhuman wretching sound, the drunk guy throws up my strawberry lemonade cake all over the bar.
I turn to Lauren with a sigh. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”
I’m in a deep sleep when my phone rings obnoxiously loud.
I fly up in bed, confused, disoriented, and annoyed that someone is calling me in the middle of the night.
It’s not really the middle of the night though. It’s nine-thirty in the morning, but to me, it’s deep REM time. I went to bed at five after closing the bar, driving home, taking a shower, and having a snack.
I have blackout curtains in my room, so it’s pitch black. I reach for my ringing phone with a groan.
“Hello?” I say, my voice as hoarse and rough as sandpaper.
“Is this Norah Ellison?”
I don’t recognize the voice. It’s a masculine one. Smooth and deep, but still annoying since he’s calling me so damn early.