Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
“You’re a blight on the city,” I mutter under my breath as I speed walk to the door and whip it open. “I’ll deliver the papers when Mick’s out.” Even if I manage to get my hands on those tests, I don’t trust this woman.
“No. You’ll deliver the tests, and then your brother will be released.” Roberta Franklin-Ware adjusts the braided chain of her Chanel bag over her shoulder and glides toward me.
I grind the back of my teeth in frustration. I have zero bargaining power. All I can do is agree to this awful woman’s demands in exchange for my brother’s freedom. This whole thing reeks of a setup. Why is some rich Park Avenue broad slumming it in Hamilton Heights? This is the one neighborhood in Manhattan that isn’t super gentrified, which is how my family can still afford the rent—barely. It’s not a hot spot in town. There aren’t any new clubs or restaurants. It’s a family neighborhood. And how did this woman not notice she dropped a brand new LV purse on the sidewalk? Does she have that many bags? Okay, dumb question. She reeks of money. She probably wipes her ass with hundred dollar bills.
“Why us?” I ask when she reaches me. That’s the question that has no answers for me.
“Do you know the difference between people like you and people like me?” She waves her thin hand in the air.
“No, but I’ll bet you’re going to tell me.” And it’ll be snotty.
“People like me make the rules. And people like you”—she stares at me over her nose—“poor people like you follow them.”
The brutal statement takes me by surprise, so I have no comeback until she’s halfway down the hall. A wave of shame floods my body and turns my face red. Angry, I lean out and yell, “At least I’m not a bitch,” but she doesn’t acknowledge even hearing me, which makes me even more pissed off.
I slam the door shut, lean against it and pound my head slowly against the wooden slab. What’s the saying? Life sucks and then you die?
Chapter Two
LAUREN
When Roberta Ware came to me with her devil’s bargain, my biggest worry was getting caught. As I stare down the barrel of a handgun, my new, most pressing concern is making it out of this expensive school alive. Who does all this just for grades? These parents are insane.
The envelope with the tests feels like a stick of dynamite in my hands. I let it fall onto the coffee table before it singes my fingertips and shrink back against the wooden slats of the office room chair as the two men examine me with various expressions of dislike. The one in the silk robe inspects me like I’m some foreign, dirty insect while the tall guy with the bedhead, tight jeans, and equally tight shirt is torn between wanting to shove me out the window and wanting to flip me over on his massive thighs and paddle my bottom until I’m red. There’s a glint in his eye that says he’d prefer to do the latter, and to my utter humiliation, it’s turning me on. Who knew I had a spanking kink?
I squeeze my legs together and remind myself I’m being held at gun point, so this is the absolute worst time to get worked up.
It’s the rich guy who has the gun in his hand, but it’s the taller one whose gaze I avoid. My instincts are telling me he’s the scarier one. This weird arousal I’m experiencing is fear-based. That’s the only explanation. I’m the type of person who laughs during sad movies because crying makes me uncomfortable, so it’s only reasonable that I’m lusty. It’s a defense mechanism so that I don’t pee on myself in terror.
Holy mother. Guns are a thousand times scarier in person than they are on the television screen. Who knew barrels were so large? I suck in the corner of my lower lip and pray I don’t humiliate myself.
“Styling hair doesn’t pay well I take it?” the rich guy says, pushing the envelope around with the barrel of his gun. The moment they turned the light on, I dropped the packet onto the table and babbled how I was just a hairdresser running an errand. It might be the only thing that is keeping me alive at this point.
“Not really.” I don’t know if he’s serious or just out of touch. Hairdressers really don’t make much money in this town. A lot of them work second jobs and sometimes even a third. The city’s too expensive with too many temptations, so we’re all working around the clock to make ends meet.
“This is your side job?” wonders the rich one. He flicks an imaginary piece of lint off the lapel of his robe.
This whole situation bothers me. Why do they both look like they slept here? They’re rich. Surely they have mansions around here and beds to sleep on. Tough guy looks like he rails a girl every night. I clench my inner thighs together at the very thought.