Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
And the flying, that’s been my stretch life goal since we flew here three years ago over the icy mountains and landed with a bump and a splash as Lucy covered her eyes and I watched out the tiny airplane window with wide eyed wonder.
When we switched from the big commercial jet to the little bush plane, it was a woman who took the seat behind the wheel, looking like a female version of Indiana Jones in her worn bomber jacket and faded jeans. She landed that buzzy little plane on the mirror surface of Lake Harpon, the lake which is encircled by my grandfather’s property; and from that moment forward, I wanted to be like her.
Papa has since built a landing strip on the other side of the lake in case we need emergency flight service for sickness or whatever. At least that’s what he said.
I tug at the hem of my shirt, pulling my shoulders back. I have the chest of a twelve-year-old girl, which is great for ballet, but not great for dangling my forbidden fruit in front of my grandfather in an attempt to garner a lusty second glance.
Not that I would know what to do if he did. I mean, in theory I do, I’ve read enough smut to turn my brain as sooty as a chimney.
It’s more a game of sorts. There’s no possibility in this world or any other that he would desire me the way I do him, but it hasn’t stopped me from a dangerous game of teasing and toying with the man who saved my sister and me from the life of madness and crime that is at the very core of our family legacy.
That legacy took my mother from me, and my stepfather, such as they were. They were loving toward us in their way, but not to each other. They were distant and engulfed in the power struggle of an all-consuming life of violence and chasing down dirty fortunes.
“Come on,” Lucy calls while I curl my toes on the cool marble floor, swiping the heel of my palm over the steamy mirror, taking in my blushed face and wet hair.
I have my mother’s strange golden-brown eyes and my father’s burnt copper hair. My face is more square than oblong and my cheeks still rival those of any chubby infant. I’ve never been conventionally beautiful like Lucy, but up here in no-man’s-land, there’re no girl cliques or peer groups to set any sort of standard.
I unscrew the cap on the gold and white glass jar on the sterling silver tray between my double sinks and dip my finger into the silky French cream, lathering it onto my face, thankful that my teenage acne has quit being so dramatic.
“I’m starving,” Lucy says. “And you better eat. I don’t want to sit there and watch Grandpa have an aneurysm watching you poke at your food and not take a bite.”
I step out of the bathroom as she stabs her index finger my way. “He doesn’t notice,” I say, running my tongue along my teeth, thinking I should brush them again before lunch, then rustle my hair into loose wet waves with my fingers.
“The hell he doesn’t.” She bounces on the edge of my bed, wearing a red leather jacket, white t-shirt and black wide-leg slacks with combat boots and a pair of red headphones around her neck.
She's the Vogue to my plain Jane and I do envy her effortless sense of style.
I’m far better at decorating my room than I am myself. My room is warm and quirky, like a blend of Town & Country meets Seventeen Magazine. Papa spares no expense when it comes to pretty much anything we want. He says very little, but a quick nod of approval at some minor or major request makes my stomach light with the wings of a thousand butterflies.
The coffered ceiling of my room is painted with clouds and blue sky and the walls are a fresco of a winter forest through a haze of pink and purple, like a Kawaii scene from Frozen.
I have a fuzzy white beanbag the size of a compact car in the corner by an enormous bay window, where I spend hours reading the stacks and stacks of books Papa lets me order.
We have no sort of spending limit, but I do know that he approves every order we place and sometimes I wonder what he thinks of the bevy of man chests that decorate the covers of many of my book orders.
My stomach rumbles as I twist my wet hair into a tight bun while Lucy gives me a look. My jeans hanging low on my hips as my shirt lifts exposing my belly. “You’ve lost more weight. If I can tell, he can too.”
“It’s just nerves. This year our performance on the new stage, I feel like it needs to be spot-on, fucking perfect. I don’t want to embarrass Grandpa.” I don’t tell her that my shameful anxiety about my growing attraction to my grandfather makes it next to impossible to eat, more so than usual.