Selfish bastards like Carter Trescott.
They have it all. The face, the house, the money, the likability. It would be generous if people like him could share their wealth with the rest of us.
But that’s the whole point—people like Carter stay at the top so that people are constantly looking up at them.
“I’m sorry,” Sadie says. “I know this isn’t what you wanna hear at this time…or any time. But it’s?—”
“No explanation needed. It’s no stress. Now get yourself home and text me when you make it back, okay?”
Sadie nods, grabs her things and hugs me goodbye.
She shuts the door behind her, but it feels more like a slam, shuddering my body. How the fuck am I supposed to fork out extra money?
Answer: The illegal auction happening Friday.
I don’t like the thought of entertaining men who make me drop expensive coffee, but desperate times and all…
What other fucking choice do I have?
Begrudgingly, I take out the card and stare at it. Conrad O’Neill. He sounds like even more of an ass than Otis’s father.
2
CARMEN
Otis’s hairblows in the wind like silk as he runs around the yard, all thirty square feet of it. For now, he’s still at the age where he’s grateful for everything.
But that won’t last forever.
I was gonna call Conrad last night, but I don’t want to make out like I’m desperate. Even though I am.
I’m sitting on the ground of my tiny yard, eating dry toast for breakfast.
It’s the definition of desperation.
To pay nanny fees, I’m gonna have to forfeit a few nonessentials on the grocery list until further notice, including butter.
After finishing the toast, I drink a gallon of water to cure my dry mouth, and take out the card again.
A two-year-old should have a proper back yard to run around in. Better yet, he should have grass. The area backs onto the house in front, the boundary marked by barbed wire.
Barbed fucking wire.
Not like I should be surprised. The neighbors are nuts and hate kids with a passion. To them, Otis is a dog they don’t want anywhere near their property.
Like my boy would ever think of crossing the boundary.
They smoke like chimneys and look like reptiles. My baby wouldn’t go near them with a ten-foot pole.
“What’s that, Mommy?” Otis leans over my shoulder and tries to read the card.
“Nothing, baby. Just work stuff.”
I slip it back into my pocket before his next question is about the silhouette of a busty woman displayed on the card.
I try to see the silver lining in the one-bedroom fixer-upper, but I don’t think there is one.
Of course, I have Otis, but a two-year-old shouldn’t be receiving dagger-eyes from the neighbors every time he wants to let off some steam.
