Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70445 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70445 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
With me, it’s always a fair bet to assume the worst.
A person takes the stool next to mine. I glance over and Melody’s sitting with her back straight, her face pale, her jaw set like she’s facing down a very painful surgery but determined to be brave. “Want something?” I ask her and she orders a soda water and lime when the bartender comes over.
“I’m not staying long,” she says and glances at me, turning the glass between her hands. “I just wanted to come and tell you not to contact me again.”
I nod to myself, not surprised, and keep on looking at her. She doesn’t like when I stare. She’s probably not used to having someone from her old life around again considering the steps she took to sever ties. But it’s hard to keep my eyes off her. Melody was always pretty—soft, full lips, dark hair and dark eyes, with a lovely figured even back then—but the years have hardened her, chiseled her down into something leaner, something tougher. Gone is the baby fat I remember, the freckles, the awkward bangs. Melody’s a woman now, a beautiful woman, with sun-browned skin and sharp eyes and a fuck-you glare like a whip crack. It’s attractive and totally unexpected. She looks like she can take a punch. She looks like she can dish one out.
Women like Melody, they don’t end up working on horse farms. Oh, they ride horses, they preen over horses, they do all that stupid horse shit, but they don’t end up training animals.
Women like Melody from good families with lots of money marry respectable hedge fund managers and pump out babies and do Pilates and get lip injections.
Except Melody’s not like that at all. Whatever she is now, she’s something of her own making, and an intense curiosity’s keeping me here in this stool.
“I figured that’s what you meant when you ran off the other day,” I say and try not to smile. If it wasn’t such a pain in the ass, it would’ve been hilarious, watching her sprint down the field like I was the specter of death chasing after her.
She grimaces and stares at her drink. “I shouldn’t have done that, okay? That was pretty embarrassing. You should’ve seen the look Ford gave me when I came crawling back.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“I said I had to go get sick.”
“That’s the story I used too. I guess we’re in sync.”
Her smile is grim. “No. We aren’t.”
I rock my glass from side to side and watch the liquid nearly slosh over the edge. “I’ve never told someone their dad’s dying before. I figured you’d have some questions, maybe cry a little bit. Never imagined you’d run.”
She picks up her drink and studies it. “You clearly don’t know my dad very well then.”
“I guess not.”
“I’m not going back, War.” She glances at me and puts the drink back down. “Not now, not ever.”
“Okay. I hear you.”
“No, you don’t. Why are you here? Why didn’t my dad send someone else? Like a cousin or—” She shakes her head, looking frustrated. Looking scared.
I don’t answer right away. It’s a good question, and I’m not sure how to explain it. Melody’s been outside of our world for a long time now and I don’t know how much she remembers, but the wealthy folks of Texas are obsessed with their reputations. They’ll do anything to make themselves look better, but life isn’t always clean and lovely and perfect. Sometimes, bad things happen, ugly things, nasty things. Sometimes, bad people are necessary to take care of the garbage. “I take jobs,” I tell her.
Her eyebrows raise. “Most people do. Except people like you. You know, people with trust funds.”
I sip my beer. “Let’s say I found myself in a position where I can’t turn down an opportunity. There are certain things men like your father want done, but they don’t want anyone to find out about it. That’s where I come in.”
Melody groans. “You’re a fixer for rich people now?”
“Oh, well, I guess it’s not that complicated after all.”
“God, I’m just another job for my father, even when he’s dying.” She looks at her hands like they might tell her something. I can’t imagine what she wants them to say—that she’s not related to that man? Or that the stories in her head about their relationship aren’t true? Or a thousand other pretty lies she can keep on telling herself, all the nice little narratives she can weave to make herself feel better.
“He really is, you know,” I say and look straight ahead, into the mirror behind the bar, gauging her reaction. “Dying, I mean.”
Her lips press together. “I don’t care.”
“Cancer. The bad kind.”
“I don’t want to know the details.”
“He’s got months, if he’s lucky.”
“War. Stop it.”
“I’m just doing my job. Once you hear me out, I’m finished. I can head on back, report to your dead dad, cash one of his final checks, and wash my hands of this. Until the funeral. But then again, I doubt I’ll go.”