Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Seriously, I have no interest, okay? I’m being as direct and honest as I can. It’s not going to happen.”
His head tilts to the side. I’m ready for him to explode in anger. I mean, he waited here all night! That means I owe him something, right?!
Except he doesn’t. Instead, he just nods. “I appreciate your honesty.” He slips from the booth. “Have a good day, Kira.”
I watch him walk off, slightly bewildered, but happy that confrontation didn’t go wrong. He took it like a man and didn’t whine. I can respect that about him.
I wait until he’s out of the diner before I clear the table. And stop with a coffee-stained saucer in one hand, my mouth hanging open.
A pile of twenties was left under the mug.
“Holy shit,” I say out loud and look around in a panic before grabbing the stack. I flip through quickly, breath catching in my throat. There’s got to be at least five hundred dollars here.
I have a moment. I’m not proud of it. In my defense, I’m very tired. But I wonder if I shouldn’t just shove the money in my apron and walk away with a solid little windfall. Five hundred bucks can change my life. That sounds crazy, but it’s true. Five hundred means heat. It means electricity for a few months. It’s a bunch of frozen waffles for Gem.
“God, I hate myself,” I mutter as I hurry after Stellan, because nobody else in this place could afford to leave that much behind. I burst out onto the sidewalk, shivering my butt off, searching wildly for a glimpse of his sandy hair. And there, halfway down the block, I spot him climbing into a fancy black BMW.
“Wait!” I yell, running after him. The car rumbles to life and pulls out. “Hey, wait a second! The money! Please, just wait!”
He definitely notices. He doesn’t stop.
I watch him drive off, standing on the sidewalk like an idiot.
Five hundred dollars clutched in one hand like a gift from heaven.
Or more like a bribe from hell.
STELLAN
The golf cart teeters and nearly goes over as I take a wild turn going way too fucking fast. Wind whips through my hair, and a group of old bastards watches me with real rage. These country club people don't seem to like me very much. One waves a club and yells something obscene.
I choose not to reply. My better nature prevails. Which might be a first.
“Offer them two million,” I shout into my phone as the cart clatters onto a path. “Go up to five if you have to.”
“Five million?!” My realtor sputters at the other end of the call. She’s a sharp lady, but this is absurd even by my lofty standards. “Stellan, that building isn’t worth more than $1.5M at most.”
“Then get the deal done.”
“The building isn’t even on the market. I put in some calls—”
“Six million. Eight. I don’t give a shit. Make it happen, Cathy.”
She lets out an aggrieved sigh. “I’ll see what I can do, but no promises. This might not be about money.”
“It’s always about money, and you know it.” I come to a skidding halt at the back side of the club’s main building. It’s a bougie spot outside the city in the affluent Main Line suburbs. Real estate is obscene out here. An actual golf course is like playing putt-putt on top of gold.
I hang up and shove the phone into my pocket. With a whistle and a smile, I stroll into the back entrance. Nobody’s around as I make my way toward the kitchen, pausing only to poke my head into the dining room. It’s early, a little past nine in the morning, so the place isn’t too crowded. Most of the members are out playing.
That’s good. Don’t want to disturb their breakfast.
I find the double doors and push through. Several cooks are lazily prepping for lunch. A few look up with confused frowns, but nobody moves to stop me. The main chef is likely busy with the few breakfast orders that did come through.
“Morning, gentlemen,” I say as I walk past.
One older Hispanic guy squints at me. “You lost?”
“No, amigo, estoy exactamente donde necesito estar.” No, friend, I’m exactly where I need to be.
He looks bemused as I keep going deeper into the kitchen. It smells like bacon and French fries. The heat coming from the ovens is oppressive. No wonder people hate working back-of-house jobs. It’s a never-ending shit storm.
I find my friend waiting back at the dishwashing station. Which is an honest-to-god surprise. I expected to roll through and leave empty-handed. No part of me imagined this scumbag would actually show up for an early morning shift.
But there he is. Brain-dead, swaying on his feet, probably coming down from a vicious high, but alive and well. He’s balding, tattooed on his neck, slovenly with a patchy beard and greasy skin, plus a dozen or so scars crossing along his hands and arms. He doesn’t notice me until I’m right on top of him.