Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
But my ex doesn’t fall for it, and her expression grows crafty.
“But that’s the thing, Christian. This is what I want. I’ve had some good times here, and I want this place.”
What the hell is she saying? I only brought Pam here once or twice, and it was hell for both of us. The first time, my ex broke a nail and had to be escorted immediately back to Vegas in order to see her manicurist. The second time, she moaned and bitched so much that I sent her back, relieved at the peace and quiet.
Clearly, my ex just wants this place because she knows I want it. Her reasoning is so fucked up, but then again, we’re in the middle of a fucked-up divorce and people have been known to do fucked-up shit in times like these. Myself included, of course.
Still, I try to talk sense into Pamela.
“You know that possession is nine-tenths of the law is just a saying, right? It’s not an actual legal concept that governs the adjudication of our divorce. It’s not real, so give it up.”
The woman sneers.
“Adjudi-what? Stop using big words, Christian, like you’re a lawyer or something. You’re not a lawyer, so stop it.”
I try to maintain my cool.
“I’m not an attorney, but I have an army of attorneys working for me. They’ve informed me that Nevada is a community property state, which means that anything acquired during a marriage is considered jointly owned by the spouses. But I inherited this cabin long before we were married, Pamela, which means that it’s mine alone. Community property rules don’t apply. It’s separate property, and belongs to me.”
“No, that’s not what I heard,” my ex tosses back lightly. “I supported you in your career while we were married. I made sacrifices, so I get a part of everything you have.”
I incline my head, frustrated.
“I’m sure the judge will take into account your contributions to the marriage, but again, I inherited the cabin before we were married, Pamela. You contributed nothing, and I don’t know how I can make that more clear. This cabin is mine, and will always stay mine because it was never commingled with your assets. You’ve only been here once. Twice, maybe. You have no reasonable claim to it.”
My ex flings her long blonde hair over one shoulder.
“Whatever, Christian, trying to talk legalese to confuse me. But I’m not confused! Emily, put your suitcase down,” she commands. “We’re staying here.”
I turn to look at the beautiful teen, whose big blue eyes are as round as saucers.
“Where should I put our stuff though?” Emily asks in a hesitant voice. “It seems like there’s only one bedroom.”
“Then put your stuff in the one bedroom!” Pamela screeches. “Oh my god, do I have to do everything around here?”
Fortunately, Emily has the presence of mind not to go into the bedroom. She merely turns to me, her gaze stricken, while remaining as still as a statue in the living room. Suddenly, a beep sounds and with an annoyed toss of her head, Pamela whips out the latest iPhone. She stares at her screen, and frowns, before chewing on her lip. Then she turns to her daughter.
“Sweetheart, Honey called out sick and I’ve been asked to replace her in tonight’s show. I’m going to have to head back.”
Emily nods quickly.
“Oh sure, I’ll just put our stuff back in the car. If we drive fast, we can make it back to Vegas in no time.”
“No, we can’t, because there’s no ‘we,’” her mother corrects, already buttoning her fur coat again. “You’ll be staying here, sweetheart. You’ll be protecting the claim of the Robinson women, and drawing a line in the sand for all women in the world. You stay here, and I’ll return to Vegas.”
Both Emily and I stare at her mother then. What the fuck? Is this woman insane?
“No fucking way,” I growl. “Both you and your daughter need to leave.”
Emily nods furiously, hot spots of color on her cheeks.
“I couldn’t possibly stay here with Christian alone,” she says in a hurried voice. “There’s not enough space, and definitely nowhere to sleep. Plus, this is an issue between you two, and I can’t get in the middle of it,” she says, transferring her suitcase nervously from her left to her right hand before reaching for a second bag. “I’ll just take these to the car.”
“Stop right there,” Pamela commands, her voice sharp. “You’re going nowhere, Emily. Man up! Or rather woman up, and take a stance for female rights. This is your chance to make a difference in the world, and you need to heed the clarion call. This is where your fight begins.”
Both Emily and I are utterly confused because where is this social justice vocabulary coming from? Pamela has never been interested in anything outside the glittery world of showgirls, and I had no idea she even knew how to use the colloquial language of BLM.