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I’d never liked the color of my skin because it was too pale for life under the desert sun. The kind of pale people called porcelain or alabaster when what they meant was ghostly or transparent.
Now though, it wasn’t so white. Purple was more like it, with swaths of blue and red, a dark angry red underneath all the bruises that had already formed and those that were still forming.
They were everywhere. My chest and my stomach, all over my back, too, from top to bottom. And there on my left side, just like the doctor had warned, a large bruise bearing the distinct shape of a boot with a gripped bottom.
I couldn’t bear to look at the hideous spots any longer. I snatched my shirt without much pain. A small smile formed at the thought that the second pill was already starting to kick in as I climbed back into bed. I reached for the bottle and took one more, just to make sure I slept all the way through the night without pain.
No more pain.
I slept a good ten hours, but when I woke up, the pain seared through my body. I popped another pill before taking a long hot shower and getting ready for the day. With a few interviews scheduled in the afternoon, I needed to be bright-eyed and ready to put my best foot forward. It was time to put the week behind me and focus on my future.
I dressed in a pair of black slacks and a pale pink blouse that was professional and not too flashy, my mother’s words always in my head. “Dress like you’re easy and the world will treat you as such, Bonnie.”
I shook off her words and her voice, slipping on the black stilettos Maisie had insisted on packing. I stood taller and felt more confident as I walked down the fancy staircase at Ashby Manor. I found my way to the kitchen where I hoped fresh coffee would be waiting.
It was. Thankfully.
But the coffee pot wasn’t alone. “Morning,” I mumbled and brushed past Calvin to get to the coffee.
“Morning,” he grunted. “You’re up early. Planning to get a jump start on day drinking?”
His words made me go still, with embarrassment or anger. I wasn’t quite sure, but I took a moment to get myself under control, adding brown sugar and cream to my mug. “I might. Is that a problem for you?”
“Is that a problem for me?” His tone changed, transformed from mildly sarcastic to something dark and foreboding. “Well, I am the one who found you passed out on the street with blood streaming out of your head. I had to look for a pulse because I thought you were dead and hauled ass to get you back here for medical help. But, no Bonnie, it’s no fucking problem for me!”
He stormed off and I stayed right where I was, stunned and still stirring my coffee as his words hit me, each syllable a blow to match the bruises all over my body.
Passed out on the street? I remembered stumbling out of Bullets & Beer, and that was it before waking up here yesterday. I needed to fill in the blanks, and I had a feeling Calvin Ashby could do that, but I wasn’t dumb enough to go to him for help.
The man despised me for some reason, and half the time I was pretty sure he was mocking me when he wasn’t staring at me with suspicion burning in his deep green eyes.
I couldn’t focus on any of that. I had interviews to get to. A life to start living.
A future to get underway.
Welp. It turned out that having a go-getter attitude wasn’t the key to success. Hell, it wasn’t even a key worth having as far as I could tell. Interview after interview had gone the same.
I showed up with a smile on my face, my bright red hair pulled back into a classy chignon so it wouldn’t be too distracting, just the way Mother had taught me. I handed over another copy of my resume, ready to answer questions about my passion for philanthropy and how I came by it honestly.
But that wasn’t what happened. No one cared that I started a program to help college students get credits for spending time with senior citizens, especially the retired academics who favored the dry desert heat.
They didn’t care about the multi-denominational food drive I created to make sure all the needy families in town were taken care of, and they certainly didn’t want to talk about the Glitz & Glamour Gala I’d put together to raise money for trafficked women and children.
Nope, they only wanted to talk about one thing.
“So, what was it like to be accused of murder? Did you do it?” The questions were asked, multiple times, with such nonchalance it was stunning. As if it was a regular part of polite conversation.
