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“All the way in Nevada? You couldn’t have applied somewhere closer to home?”
I shrug. “It’s better than nothing.”
She sighs. “I guess we’ll see about that, but Nevada is hot, and I heard it was expensive.”
I knew she would have a problem with it. I could’ve told her I just landed a job as president of the United States, and she would still find a million reasons why I should do something else. Nothing is good enough or her, which means there’s no point in telling her what the letter really was about.
Because it wasn’t a job interview.
I keep my head down, eating my eggs as quickly as possible to avoid having to dish out further lies. I’ve done it enough in my life where I can make up stuff on the spot, but I hate having to lie to my mom. Eventually, holes start to show, and then the entire story collapses as though it were made of sand.
But my mom doesn’t give up easily once she has her claws in. “You’re going to choke on those eggs. Slow down and tell me more about the job. Does it pay well? They better give you benefits. You know, if they don’t do a 401K match, you’re not ever going to be able to retire off of it. You might as well keep looking.”
I finish off the eggs and slide my plate away. “You know, I think you’re right. Probably not worth even going down there to check it out, right? Even if they paid for my flight.”
“They paid for your flight?” she asks in a higher tone, pulling her head back and raising her eyebrows.
I’m satisfied by her reaction, even if my words are nothing more than a big, fat lie. It still feels good to see her roll back her constant criticism.
I get up from my chair, letting her marinate in my words for a moment as I pour myself a cup of coffee. I have to drink it black even though I hate it that way. I can’t stand the artificial creamer she buys.
“So, you’re getting flown out to the desert for what, exactly?” she asks, immediately diving back into her doubtful line of questioning. “They have legal brothels out there. Make sure they’re not trying to round up unsuspecting young women for something like that. Maybe I should take a look at the offer.”
“No,” I blurt, turning around so fast that I splash coffee across the tile floor.
She jumps to her feet to clean it up, but I beat her to it, grabbing a few paper towels and sliding them across the floor with my foot. “Let me do it,” I say as she attempts to take over.
“Just, here – ugh, just don’t get it all in the grout. It stains,” she complains.
I sigh, relenting to her control-freak tendencies. If she’s occupied with the floor, maybe she’ll stop asking questions long enough for me to sneak back down to my room. It’s only been a few minutes, but I’m dying to read the letter again. I’m so excited!
I grab my coffee and slip out of the kitchen, rushing down the stairs back to my bedroom and closing the door behind me.
Peace at last. If I had to lie about one more thing, I think I would’ve had a brain aneurysm.
I grab the letter from under the stack of books on my desk, leafing through the pages and shuffling them around until I find the page that got me so excited before breakfast. There it is, in plain English, but if my mom knew, she’d freak out.
Ms. Oakley Turner, daughter of Mr. Angus Dredd, and heir to Smoke, Steel, & Whiskey.
At first, the surname Dredd trips me up, but that’s only for a moment. Angus is my father, but my mom divorced him when I was only two years old. I don’t remember a thing about him, but I do recall my last name used to be Dredd. My mom changed it to Turner, her maiden name, not long after the divorce.
Oakley Dredd. I don’t know, I kind of like it, even if Angus was a complete piece of shit. According to my mom, he went to prison for murder, and that was the last we ever saw of him. He didn’t want anything to do with my mom when he got out, and hehatedkids.
My mom never got remarried, but I’m not all that surprised. She has always been overbearing, and I can’t imagine the kind of hell she’d give a man who didn’t agree with everything she said. She’s highly opinionated.
I read through the details of the letter yet again. The state of Nevada has pinpointed me as the heir to Angus’s bar, along with a few other things, such as a motorcycle that I would never dare to try riding, and a couple of storage lots that I assume are part of the bar because of their address.
I’m surprised about inheriting the bar, but even more so that my mother isn’t the one to get it. Either she’s not legally entitled to it, or he specifically wanted me to have it. I can’t be sure until I call the number at the end of the letter. There’s been a lawyer assigned to this case, and I’ll be able to ask my burning questions to her.
How did my father die?
And why did he leave all this to me?
I know I can’t call know, or my mom will hear me and come snooping. I have to leave the house.
I shove the letter into my purse, tactically covering it with a cheap romance paperback and the couple tubes of lip balm. I only have to lie once more to get out of the house, and then, I’ll be on a plane across the country.
My mom is still in the kitchen as I come up the stairs, and she cranes her neck into the hallway as I hurry toward the door. “Where are you going?”
