Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
I look rich and I am. Quietly rich, not the boisterous, tacky kind you see at the craps tables where flip flops and three hundred dollar sweat pants scream look at me.
I don’t need to stand out. I need people to want to get close to me. They need to trust me. Feel good around me. That’s the magic.
I tried to buy off my error in judgment with Zeneli but he wanted something else. He’d gotten some noise about my new friend, Margaret Malcolm, who is now the pivot point for putting together the deal that will buy back my life.
A black Bentley stretch is waiting when I step out and cross the landing pad, the blazing heat swirling in the air, and as I climb in the back of the car, my phone buzzes.
I take a moment to breathe and settle myself.
I’m running out of time to find my daughter, which is key to the deal.
Out of all the ways to try and get Margaret to trust me in the short amount of time available, I had to lie about being a father. I lathered it on thick, with a story about being thrust into fatherhood eighteen years ago, when an ex showed up on my doorstep with a chubby ten-month old, paternity papers, a diaper bag and the news that she had to high tail it out of town for skimming on drug mule deals and she was never heard from again.
Margaret was insanely enamored with my rise-to-the-occasion fatherhood. The idea of being a father never occurred to me in real life. The way I’ve lived, there hasn’t been room or time to have a relationship with more commitment than a few hours of company, let alone a child.
But bringing my daughter to her over-the-top bullshit charity affair is just the trust magnet I need.
I blow out a breath, shake my head and look at my phone screen as the driver eyes me from the rearview.
“Where to?” he asks with a thick Eastern block accent.
“When I know, I’ll tell you,” I answer, because right now I’m not sure.
There’s an email notification in my anonymous encrypted Proton account I use only for my contacts at various animal shelters around the country. This one is from my contact at the Vegas PSCA which I decide to read before anything else.
D,
As promised, I wanted to update you on the condition of ‘Micro’. She is going to live, thanks to you. She will be fully rehabilitated, and a home found for her according to your guidelines. Your most generous donation, yet again, allows us to provide top level care and re-homing to the best adopters possible.
Your continued support and intervention on behalf of the animals means the world to us and them. We do wish to publicly thank you, but respect your wishes to remain simply, ‘D’.
I ball my fist then stretch out my fingers as the pleasant memory of the popping sound of every finger on that worthless fucker when I dislocated them will remain with me forever. I give zero fucks that I was the one that ended his life. I would have killed him ten times if it were possible for what he did to that dog. Most of my soft spots have scarred over, but not when it comes to dogs. I have my reasons.
But, what about the blonde…
I shake my head and click onto the most recent text.
GREG HUNTER: I have an actress for you. She’s perfect.
ME: Send me the address.
I’ve known Greg for maybe five years which is a long time in Vegas. He’s got some scratch, but he’s a lowlife loan shark when it comes down to it.
I give the driver the address and close the privacy screen, leaning back onto the cool leather seat.
My recent recurring daydream of a life away from here on some sandy beach without the stink of broken dreams and stale liquor washes over me.
I close my eyes, my head rest on the top of the set then clear my mind and go to that quiet space I’ve cultivated with an unlikely mediation practice over three decades.
I breathe as the images turn vibrant. I’m on the beach under one of those fucking palm frond umbrellas with a smoking hot little triple cherry virgin-looking blonde giving off Marilyn Monroe vibes, and she’s rubbing a nine-month round belly, wearing this tiny as fuck yellow string bikini.
Her face isn’t clear, but I know who it is. I know exactly who it is.
Her epic double-D’s are spilling out of the tiny triangle top. She’s got a ring on her finger with a ruby the size of a Sweet Tart. It’s the ring my mother put into my hand on her deathbed. It was the only valuable possession she managed to hide from my POS father who left us both high and dry when I was ten.