Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
“I wish I could help,” Riley murmurs.
“Neither of us is rich,” I remind us.
“If I win the lottery, I’m buying us both an island.”
“I’ll sell my half.”
She laughs. “No—each, silly.”
“It’s hard even to imagine anything like that.”
“It’s my fault. I’m trying to cheer you up in the lamest way possible.”
“No, trust me. I appreciate you even trying to cheer me up.”
“Don’t say it like that,” she mutters. I can hear the tightness in her voice. Riley has always said I have an excellent ability to read people. When she was drunk once, she told me that’s why I’m so good at reading books. I know how to read the characters just like I watch people in real life. Yet, classic Riley, she didn’t remember it the next day.
“Maya?”
“I’m here,” I say as I nudge my way through the never-ending flow of foot traffic. “I’m just busy.”
“I’m not going to forget about you.”
“I don’t want to be a burden, Rye,” I say with a sigh.
“Nobody here calls me Rye. Anyway, I thought you hated that.”
“Hated what?”
“When people say they are burdens …”
“Ah, UNO reverse,” I grumble.
She’s got me there. I hate it when Mom says that to me, but that’s not really fair. I’m not dying.
“Listen, I need to go,” I say tiredly.
“Maya, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be stupid. Hey, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Love ya.”
I hang up. I don’t have the energy to continue our conversation, not when there’s no changing my situation.
Ducking my head under the low doorway, I walk into the basement of what appears to be a bunch of different call centers. Heck, I’ll take anything at this point.
A man sits at the front desk. I guess he’s maybe in his mid-twenties, but I’ve never been very good with age. He’s got his feet on the desk, legs crossed, chewing a cocktail stick. His hair is slicked back, and when he smirks, there’s a hint of silver at the back.
I notice it because, well, it’s noticeable. He smirks as if to say, Ah, you’re impressed, but I’m not. I could sell that and pay for some of Mom’s bills.
“Hello,” I say, using my polite voice. I must’ve handed out at least one hundred resumés, maybe more at this point. “I was wondering if I could leave a—”
“A job, yes? Work?” He leans against the desk, lightly rapping his knuckles against it as if he wants me to hurry up. “A girl like you, you could have any job you wanted.”
He looks me up and down in a pretty obvious way. But the thing is, I’ve never been the prettiest girl. I’ve never gotten the attention of boys or men. I’m just not the standard of beauty the world wants with my curves. And if Riley’s right, and I can read people, this man is mocking me but thinks I’m too stupid to realize it.
“Oh, you think?” I say.
I can’t have an ego. If he thinks I’m a ditz, let him. Maybe it’ll make me more memorable, and he’ll pass my resumé on instead of throwing it in the trash like at least half the other places must’ve done. Who am I kidding? It was probably more.
“One hundred percent,” he says. “Have you modeled before?”
I almost laugh at this, but I haven’t got the energy for an argument. He might think I’m insulting him. “No, never,” I say while silently adding, obviously. I don’t think I’m ugly. I mean, what is ugly or pretty? I don’t dislike my appearance. I’m just not in the habit of deluding myself, either.
“Oh, wow,” he says, leaning back with a big, broad smile. I wonder if he honestly believes I don’t see right through him. Or maybe he knows I can. Perhaps he likes it. “You have just the … style for it. Why don’t I give you a flyer? We’re having auditions tonight. A girl like you could make a lot of money.”
“Could I hand you this too?” I say, gesturing with my resumé.
He scowls as he takes a flyer from a pile next to his keyboard and starts scrawling some words. “Why would a tasty girl like you work in a place like this?”
Cringe doesn’t even come close to describing the feeling washing over me when he says that. Tasty? Seriously?
“I need the money. My mom is sick. She’s dying. I just want her last few months—or maybe even year, fingers crossed—to be as comfortable as possible.”
He’s focused on scribbling with the pen the whole time I talk. I don’t think he even knows I was talking. When he looks up, he’s got that same smirk. “Come here tonight. Shake those … brains, hey?”
He basically shoves the paper into my hand.
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, stuffing it into my pocket and walking away.
It’s pretty obvious what sort of deal this is. Girls come here thinking they’re going to get some legit modeling gig. Next thing you know, the sleazeball comes out, and then what? Stripping? Worse? Leaving the building, I reach into my pocket, meaning to throw the flyer in the trash.