Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Do not tell me Posey is her actual name.”
My agent, Eli, had shrugged his shoulders. “What difference does her name make? She’s a great person who also values her privacy, and I’ve no doubt that she won’t leak your location to the press or sell you out.”
“It doesn’t make one lick of difference, but that cannot be her name.”
He laughed, just like he laughs at every other thing I say.
“I’ll find out when I get there,” I tell him.
“Duke, don’t do that. You’ll make it weird.”
“How’s it weird wantin’ to know her actual name?”
“That is her actual name. Stop being a dick because you want something to pick on.”
I wasn’t picking. I was just relentlessly curious.
Posey isn’t opening the door, and I’m growing impatient, which would come as a surprise to no one.
I pull off my disguise. The wig is itchy as hell, especially with this hat pulled down on top of it. I yank off my sunglasses, too.
The cab driver probably thought I was half off my rocker, wearing glasses in the middle of an afternoon with barely any sun.
I knock for the third time, then use the ridiculously frivolous knocker, feeling like an ass because it’s smaller than the palm of my hand. A pineapple-shaped knocker—who would have thought?
I wait.
And wait.
Since I’m an impatient man, I pull out my phone and shoot a text to Eli, but it doesn’t deliver. Shit, that’s right—he’s on a flight and doesn’t land for another hour. Shouldn’t the dude have onboard Wi-Fi or some shit so I can get ahold of him in case there’s an emergency, this being an emergency?
He makes enough damn money that he can afford it.
No one is supposed to know I’m here, so the last guys I’m going to call are Jack Jennings or Sloan Powell, two men I’ve played against from time to time who live in the city nearby, neither of whom I want to share my whereabouts with.
The last time I was in the same room with Sloan Powell, he gossiped nonstop about who was sleeping with who and whose wife was caught cheating. Not cool.
Just as I’m fixin’ to throw a hissy fit, I get a brilliant idea.
“I’ll just mosey around to the back and see if I can’t find a magic door that’ll let me in.”
I decide to give myself a tour of the exterior, confident there’s a back door that might be unlocked. Or a key hidden under a doormat.
Making my way to the backyard, I take the center of the narrow driveway—it’s the old concrete kind with the grass down the middle and a basketball hoop above the detached shed slash garage.
The yard, I discover, is surrounded by a tall hedgerow; plenty of trees, and frankly, I’m surprised by the privacy. Ivy climbs up the back brick walls, too, giving the house a decidedly old-school vibe.
I wonder if ivy is any good for the longevity of the brick. Doesn’t that shit fuck up the mortar?
Eh.
Why do I care?
Climbing the two steps of the small back porch, I open the screen door and knock on the glass.
Nothing.
“Hello?” I pause. “Your guest has arrived.”
Rattling the doorknob, I find it locked, which shouldn’t irritate me but does anyway. Well, one thing is for certain, this Posey person isn’t irresponsible. If I lived in a house like this, I probably wouldn’t feel threatened by the neighborhood and probably wouldn’t lock the doors.
Ain’t no one gonna come bother me here.
I’m confident of that.
This place looks like some storybook character lives here—Mother Goose or some shit—with its green shutters and potted plants and the swing hanging from the giant oak tree in the center of the bright green grass.
It’s been cut recently and smells incredible.
Fresh.
Bet it’s rained in the last few days.
I glance up at the sky as I stand there, watching a few clouds roll by.
Sighing, I tap the toe of my cowboy boot, and it echoes against the wooden porch floor.
Tap.
Tap.
I notice that the kitchen window is open, and scanning the screen storm door, I can’t help noticing how easy it would be to pop that shit out and help myself to the inside.
It’s not that high off the ground, and I’m tall; no doubt I could climb inside if I wanted to without any issues so I’m not standing out here like an asshole all goddamn evening.
It’s not getting any lighter as daylight flirts with the night.
Climb inside through the window, dude, and let’s get this party started.
That would definitely solve a lot of my problems right now. I’m tired, hungry, and I feel like a sitting duck.
Fuck it.
I’m doing it.
I’m gonna climb in through the window, damned if I ain’t—I could use a cheap thrill in my life and this fits the bill.
Without removing my boots, I take the few short steps to the window and pop the screen out easily. I don’t give a fuck about breaking and entering—not when I technically live here now, albeit temporarily.