Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Me: I’ll explain when I get home.
The text back is instant.
Emma: I’ll take that as a yes. I’ll bring the chocolate.
Going to my other text message, I see asshole as the sender and wonder if I should even open it.
Asshole: Engagement party will be in two weeks. Best to inform your parents now. Would you like me there when you do so?
What the actual fuck!
Two weeks.
Is he crazy? I didn’t even think of actually telling my father I’m getting married. I guess I thought I could hide that fact from him. At least until I could make sense of this whole situation. Now, I’m guessing I won’t be able to. But how do I explain the fact that I’m marrying my father’s friend––which, come to think of it, are they even truly friends or just business acquaintances?
“Lottie, your mother said you stopped by.” My father’s presence is intimidating, always has been. I’ve never been able to lie to him.
He’s always been an okay father, never around much unless it was time to show the family off by going to events. But…They have always been very vocal about the fact that I do not step out of line, that scandals are prohibited in this family, that they have no issue’s with cutting anyone, even family, off—and they have, too. My mother’s sister was cut off when she was caught dealing drugs, she was told to leave the city and never return. As far as I know, she could be dead. They never spoke of her again, but that’s just one instance; my father has done that to many people. They come and go with his say. And despite how much I want to say or believe I am living my own life, I know that it would kill me inside to not have them there, even if they aren’t the best of parents to me.
“Yep, I need to talk to you both.”
My father scrunches his face up. “Can this wait? I’m waiting for a very important call.”
I nod and he taps my shoulder as he walks past me to leave. No kiss or thanks for stopping by. I can’t remember the last time my father gave me more than five minutes of his time.
“Goodbye, Mother,” I say as I head toward the door, picking up my purse.
She stays at the office door, waiting to talk to my father. “Yes, see you soon.” She doesn’t even look my way when she speaks.
“He said what?” Emma asks, shaking her head. I show her the text message again. “So, does that mean you have to move out of here?”
“No. No way. You think?” Oh gosh, I didn’t even think of that.
“I think you may have to. Otherwise, your father will wonder. And it’s only a year, so just keep everything here and take what you need there. Then, when it’s over, you can come back as if it never happened.”
“A whole year,” I moan. “That’s so long.” I lie back on my bed and press call, and it rings for exactly a minute before the asshole answers. “Will I have to live with you?” I ask, while squeezing my eyes shut.
“Yes.”
I hang up the phone without saying another word.
A whole year of my life is gone.
“He said yes?”
I nod keeping my eyes closed. “He said yes.”
“Okay, so we assumed this. Only a year, Lottie. Then, in the contract it says all evidence will be destroyed. You can do this.”
I open my eyes. “Can I, though?” My phone rings and I put it to my ear. Whiskey has a set ring tone now, which isn’t a particularly nice one; it says a lot of swear words.
“I’m at your door, here to answer all your questions. Let me in.” I hang up the phone, sit up, and open my mouth, but I’m left speechless.
“Lottie?” Emma asks, getting off my bed, which I might add, is a mess due to me going through my closet to find the perfect outfit to wear to his damn office. Why I cared if I looked good is beyond me.
“He’s here,” I manage to say. Whiskey is here. At my apartment. And I’m not sure I’m ready to face him.
Here goes nothing.
“Shit! Really?” I can see the extra bounce in her step as she runs for the front door, and before I can stop her, the door is flung open, and Emma has her hand on her hip with her blonde pixie cut blowing strands in her face as she looks up to Whiskey, who’s standing in my doorway. “You have some nerve, you piece of shit. Who the fuck does that? You need a fucking stick shoved up your ass so you know what it’s like to be screwed by someone.” Then, she steps back and slams the door in his face.