Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
“Well?”
“Boring and uninspiring. One out of five stars. Would not recommend.”
I walked over to one of my nightstands, taking a pen from a drawer. I signed the dotted line at the bottom of the contract, even though I hadn’t actually any idea what it entailed. I handed the file back to Ransom, flashing him my femme fatale smirk.
“So. You are capable of making a good decision after all.” He plucked the contract from between my fingers.
I expected a pat on the head, he was so demeaning, but of course, I wasn’t good enough for Ransom’s touch.
“Your father owes me a hundred bucks,” he said, matter-of-factly.
They’d bet on it? I wouldn’t put it past my father. He always viewed me as his little, simpleton, adorable Sugar Pie. With the big eyes and the small brain.
Maybe Dad had told him about my…issues. Maybe Ransom knew I hadn’t read the contract. And how sad was it that this complete and utter stranger who didn’t even like me had more faith in me than my own pops?
Tears filled my eyes, and I felt my throat clogging up with a scream.
“Look at me now, Brat.”
Brat. It was so patronizing, so belittling…and there was nothing I could do about it. My parents wouldn’t even take my calls.
Why hadn’t I answered them when I still could? When it was still up for discussion?
I turned my head, giving him a hate-filled look, squaring my shoulders.
“I fulfilled my side of the bargain. Now give me my phone, jerk.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Please, jerk.”
Chuckling darkly, he produced my phone from the inner pocket of his jacket and handed it to me. I reached to take it. He raised the phone in the air, not letting me touch it just yet. He was so tall the phone brushed the ceiling. In that moment, I could tell liquid gold ran through his veins, not blood. He was no mortal. Nor was he a god. He was, quite simply, something else entirely.
“Remember the rules: no telling anyone your whereabouts. You are only allowed to post pictures of a place after you’ve left it, and once it’s been cleared with either Max or me.”
Max? Who the hell was Max? I supposed the manual/contract covered it.
Ransom continued. “No check-ins. No telling anyone about your schedule. And absolutely no showing off your cars and their license plates. Capiche?”
I nodded, feeling like a punished child, loathing him more and more each second that passed, but he hadn’t said I couldn’t post pictures after leaving said locations, which felt more practical while being restrictive. Still, I didn’t have an optimistic glow about the rest of the contract’s mysterious contents.
“I would just like to make one thing clear, though.” I tilted my chin up.
He stared at me with his signature, would-rather-be-anywhere-else expression intact, waiting for me to continue.
“I do have a real job, and it is important to me. Contrary to what you believe, I’m not some scatterbrained heiress with entitled teenybopper friends. Got it?”
He slipped the contract into a briefcase and ignored my words, which I supposed was better than laughing in my face.
Waltzing through the vast hallways of my mansion, he vanished, like a ghost in the stories my mom told me not to read after dark.
“So where do y’all think Sundance will be held this year?” Nectarine, or NeNe, wondered aloud when we sat at Bakersfield, a new bakery on Rodeo Drive. She flung her lavender hair to one side, popping an orange pill bottle open and sliding a Xanax down her throat.
Ransom was sitting at a table next to us outside by the curb, working on his laptop and looking like he wanted to murder everyone on the premises. I was hyperaware of his presence, so I noticed when his fingers stilled over the keyboard. He’d definitely heard the verbal fart NeNe had just let loose.
“Where it is held every year,” I said woodenly. “In Sundance.”
NeNe pouted, swirling the straw inside her iced coffee without drinking it. “I thought it was like the Olympics.”
“It would make sense if the Olympics were only held in Greece,” my other companion, Tara, said. She tugged at her ash-blonde chignon, making it purposefully asunder.
Tara was a leggy supermodel. I could safely say we three had never shared an enlightening or intellectual conversation, but we found ourselves hanging out together more often than not. Advertisers liked our combined market pull. Tara brought the fashion-obsessed audience, Nectarine the makeup buffs, and my specialty was Midwestern women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four.
Despite that, I couldn’t call Tara and NeNe my friends. They knew very little about my life. Not that there was much to know. All I did when we were together was hang out with Keller and post stories of my freebies on Instagram.
Ransom’s nostrils flared as he kept working on his laptop. It was obvious he thought the three of us were a waste of space.