Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
I open a door and step through, closing it behind me. I walk past three racquetball courts on my right, the rubber balls like thunder as they bang against the walls.
Without a hitch in my step, I slip through another door, then down a hallway, and quietly twist the handle of the last door on the left.
I peer inside.
Rows of long and short lockers rise high in the room, towels strewn on the counters and on the floor, because rich men do not pick up after themselves. The women’s locker room is much cleaner.
A shower runs in the back, but at this hour, I don’t see anyone walking around. I slink in, closing the door behind me.
Stepping between two benches, I slide down a row, my back to the lockers as I come to the end of the aisle. Waiting, I slowly peek around the corner, but I don’t see anyone, so I hurry on to the next row. Stopping at 17-b, I punch in the code. One-two-seven-eight-key. Same code my father uses for his debit cards, the auto start on his cars, and—I open the locker and smile, seeing what I’m after—his cell phone. Snatching it, I close the door, cross the aisle, and hide away in a bathroom stall.
Quickly, I pull out my phone, turn off the volume, and slip it back in my skirt before opening up my dad’s cell. Going to texts first, I see a thread from Blake Tyson, his girlfriend, and scroll through messages until I reach those dated last year.
While he was still living at home.
Florida is a no-fault state, and I’m sure my mother was unfaithful many times, so I’m not sure I’ll use this, but just in case. Proving infidelity could guarantee custody of the kids and alimony.
I start screenshotting and texting to my phone, feeling it buzz with every notification in my pocket. I see emails from his lawyer, but I bypass those, spotting bank statements instead. I don’t look. I don’t have time. I forward documents to myself, careful to delete any record of the texts and emails, as well as the screenshots.
Peering out into the locker room, I stuff his phone back with the rest of his stuff and close the locker up.
I blow out a breath, sweat covering my back. I’m not sure that I’m nervous. What’s he going to do if he finds me? But I don’t want him to know what I’m up to and give him a chance to cover his tracks.
I start to walk out, but I stop and look down in the direction of the shower where he’s no doubt washing off his Wednesday night racquetball game before he goes home to her.
For a while after he split, I thought he wasn’t seeing us because he was in Atlanta. Settling into his new office. New house.
Then I found out he never left town.
He must’ve known I’d see him eventually. He didn’t even try to prepare me. As if my reaction wouldn’t faze him.
As if I no longer mattered.
That’s how quickly things can change.
It’s amazing how people smile at you and kiss you on the forehead and they never wanted to be there. I can’t say much surprises me anymore.
At least now I know a little more about myself because of my parents’ actions. I will be fierce about my family someday.
I slip through the door to the racquetball court and make my way for the clubhouse entrance again.
Clay’s dad shakes off his long coat, letting the host take it while his dinner party laughs and moves into the dining room ahead of him. My father cheated on my mother, and I can’t stand him. Clay’s dad cheated on her mom, and still, I don’t think he’s a bad guy. The tragedy they endured—the loss of Clay’s little brother—is something I hope never to experience, and I wouldn’t have the audacity to judge.
I pluck a stuffed mushroom off the tray heading in after them and lock eyes with my best friend’s dad, smiling. “Thanks for defending my honor, Mr. Collins.”
And I pop the mushroom into my mouth, not stopping to chat as he turns toward me.
My own dad is undoubtedly aware that Jerome Watson is circulating a picture of me. I don’t think he punched him like Mr. Collins did.
I hurry down the driveway, but someone grabs my hand. “What are you doing here?” Army asks.
I spin around, but he presses his finger to my lips before I can speak.
He pulls me across the green, around the clubhouse, to an unmarked door underneath the patio porch overhead.
I know the door.
The Wolfe Room.
He yanks me inside, and we head down a nearly pitch-black stairwell.
I step into a room, seeing Dallas and Trace standing next to a table full of beer bottles.
Army releases me. “Why are you here?” he asks again.