Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
“Tyrannical? Yeah, I would agree. Hattie is a bounty hunter for people who escape.”
She and I just look at each other for a moment and I watch in real time as her opinion of this place adjusts. Clover blows out a breath. “Wow.” Then she turns and we resume walking. “So… she hunted you. Like actually hunted you?”
“Yep.”
“Did you ever date her?”
“No.”
“Did she want to date you?”
“I think she did.”
“Come on, Riggs. Either she’s a bitchy jilted ex or she’s not.”
“She’s not. Not really. She never had the chance to be an ex.”
“So she’s a bitter, scorned woman looking for vindication?”
My smile is crooked, but honest too. “I think that would be the perfect way to describe Hattie Miller.”
“All right then.”
“But don’t be like that. Please. Just… be yourself.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that.”
I shrug. “Well, you’re likable just the way you are.” She doesn’t say anything and when I steal a look down at her, I find her cheeks flushed. “Why are you blushing?”
“I’m not.”
“Whatever.”
“It’s just… you’re such a contradiction. One minute you’re threatening to—”
“Clover. My God. Can we just put those threats behind us? If I had known you’d throw my words back at me for the rest of my life, I’d have chosen them more carefully.”
She chuckles. “Rest of your life? That’s dramatic. Unless you have plans for me that I don’t know about. Because tomorrow you’re gonna drop me off in a bunker and we’ll never see each other again.”
“No. I mean…” I sigh and stop walking. Then point at a building. “We’re here.”
Clover looks over at it and lets out her own long breath. “OK.” Then she turns to me. “But I would like to go on record that I think this whole night is a bad idea.”
“It’s fine. Ike Monroe is a bit player in the big scheme of things. Blackberry Hill is considered somewhat of a backwater in my circles. It’s probably a major event to host people from Kingfisher Flats. We’re gonna go up, mingle, eat, and leave. And tomorrow we’ll be out of here and never think about him again.”
Clover wipes her hands on her pants like she’s nervous. And she doesn’t agree with me. But there’s no way back now, so I just walk to the door of the building and hold it open. “After you.”
Ike Monroe’s quarters are a lot like the penthouse at the consulate. It’s all very upscale and proper. Which is a bit of a contradiction to Ike himself, who comes off as folksy and simple.
It’s an act, though. Well, I’m sure that’s who he started out as. He did, after all, grow up in the up-top Blackberry Hill. And from what I’ve heard, before he took over, it was a real shithole of a place.
Of course, what happens up there has almost no relevance to what happens down here, so this city—while tiny in comparison to the ones out west—has always been rather middle-class. Maybe even upper-middle-class.
I’m sure, when Ike Monroe came of age and was brought down here for the first time, his eyes went wide with wonder. To someone like him—a folksy, simple boy from a poverty-stricken hillbilly village—I’m sure it was nothing short of opulent.
And I do admit, Blackberry Hill has a certain charm to it. Kingfisher Flats is more of an urban city. It doesn’t have the old buildings like this place. Or the historical struggles that took place up top. Even though Blackberry Hill has the forlorn and destitute feel of up-top West Virginia, it’s kinda quaint and has a very small-town feel.
But that’s not the look Ike was going for when he styled this penthouse. Though the building has to be over a hundred years old, and looks its age from the outside, you’d never know it from up here.
It’s all modern and sleek. Floor-to-ceiling windows and stainless-steel accent tables, in combination with the ultra-modern black and white color scheme, makes the whole thing feel very metropolitan.
When we arrive, Ike is busy talking to other people and it immediately becomes clear that this isn’t some simple dinner. It’s a cocktail party and no one is dressed as casual as Clover and me. Dozens of people mingle. Every man is wearing a suit and every woman is wearing a dress. Not tuxes and gowns, but compared to us, in our woodsy-adventurer clothes, they might as well be.
Ike spies us from across the room, smiling big as he excuses himself from the crowd of people he’s been talking to and heads our direction. I turn my head to Clover so he can’t read my lips and quietly say, “Here he comes. Just smile and act… demure, or something.”
Clover’s comeback is cheerful. “On it.”
“Riggs Russell!” Ike comes at me, hand extended. I shake it as he beams. “It has been a minute, hasn’t it?”