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Doesn’t look like I’ll have to dislocate any fingers today.
“Jesus, didn’t think you could move that fast.” Greg scratches his forehead as I step through the door with the dog wiggling in my hand.
I set him down inside and he throws me a lopsided look, wags his tail, then trots across the room and down the hall. “Why’s that?”
“Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a big guy but you got reflexes like a fucking cat.”
I grit my teeth, moving inside as the pounding in my temples intensifies. I brush a twitching finger over my forehead, scanning, checking corners, hallways, absorbing every detail.
Someone with some talent took hold of the decorating. The furnishings are thrift and IKEA but it’s got a warmth and quirky sophisticated style like one of those overpriced boutique hotels in Palm Springs. There’s a bright yellow plastic chair in the corner and a gray mid-century style sofa with cheerful floral pillows against a wall. The buckled and stained wood floor is partially covered with a vintage looking yellow and brown hooked rug.
It’s all very Salvation Army but someone is trying to make this shit hole a home and it gives me an unusual stab of sadness. There’s also this caramel and sugar scent in the air that has my mouth watering.
I wonder if it’s the girl I’m hiring that put in this effort, and if she knows that if she fucks up this weekend, she might get me killed.
Might get her killed too.
I draw a breath through my tight throat and my spine stiffens as I take in more of that sweet and savory scent, as a guy with dirty blonde hair and a spray tan appears in black polyester golf shorts, a blue polo and fake Gucci slides.
With dirty white socks.
I scoff at the caricature, half expecting his eyes to flash with dollar signs like in those old Looney Tunes cartoons.
“Denny Wesley,” he says, jutting an eager hand in my direction.
“Hawk,” I respond, ignoring his offer to shake.
“Denny is the old friend I told you about,” Greg says with that tweaky, excited tone that tells me they need me way the fuck more than I need them. At least, I’ll let them think that. “His daughters are like family to me.”
Daughters. Plural.
“Good to know.” I nod, listening to my vertebrae pop as I crack my neck. “So, where is this actress?”
“She’s coming,” Denny says with a slap of his hands. “You wanna sit? I can get you a beer–”
I shake my head. “You have thirty seconds to produce this girl. Then, it will take me ten seconds to know if she’s going to work or not.”
“Of course,” the father mutters. “Brigid isperfect. She’s been involved in theater since she was ten—”
I cut him off. “You now have ten seconds.” I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose and growl at the sound of a fly buzzing overhead. I fucking hate flies for more reasons than most.
A fuzzy little black and white dog is snoring under the yellow chair as I scan a smattering of photos on a mantle. To my surprise, I’m drawn to one. It’s clearly the father, with two little girls wearing cowboy hats as they stand on the edge of the Grand Canyon.
Fast, light footsteps come from behind as a charge prickles the air.
“We were supposed to be going on vacation.” There’s a blonde angel nodding toward the picture frame in my hand and her voice is more music than words. The sight of her nearly buckles my fucking knees. “Our father forgot to tell us we were on our way to Vegas and to our new home.” She waves a hand toward cracking paint and brown stains on the ceiling above. “To this day I don’t like surprises.”
Tunnel vision takes over. Blood rushes through my ears.
Is it her?
No. Can’t be. There are thousands of blondes in this town, but I’m a man that has an uncanny knack for micro-details and I’d give it hundred to one odds thatthisgirl withthatass is the same one from the shelter.
Her dark-chocolate brown eyes bore into mine. She's smaller than I first assessed, but curvy and soft in all the right places, with those platinum blonde waves falling over her shoulders and around her childlike face, framing the pink magic of her cheeks.
She’s got on this fuck-you sort of gray tank-top with “Nope” written across the swell of her life-giving tits. Her earlobes are decorated with silver earrings that look like little ninjas. She’s all business up top, but on her lower level she’s sporting a gauzy white skirt that skims her knees, paired with white Ked’s tennis shoes and no socks.
Her lips are spun sugar and, fuck, her hips are swollen curves of rich softness and I want to cross the room and shove my face into her cleavage and wear her tits like earmuffs.
