Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I guess I sort of have to include myself in that equation, but my job has prevented me from having to choose between food or electricity the way I know some people have to.
I used to be the type of person who would say those people who can't make it need to render better life decisions. If they can't afford kids, they shouldn't have had them in the first place, but people fall on hard times. Stable jobs become less so when the economy falls to pieces.
People who work in the entertainment industry no longer have jobs, and I'm not talking about movie stars. They always have a Plan B, a way to fall back on, a nest egg, or something. The people who really take the hit are the craft food service people, or the hairstylist, the costume designers, and the people who build the sets. Those poor fuckers are the ones not working.
It goes the same way when people can no longer afford their lives. They make bad decisions. It's why check cashing and loan places tend to pop up in the most impoverished communities.
As successful as I've been in life, I know a lot of it rests in the hands of luck and connections. I can't get lost in my head right now, worrying about all the millions of things that are wrong with the world. I have a rich girl I have to chastise for sticking her nose where it doesn't belong.
Chapter 12
Cora
The shower I just climbed out of does nothing to make me feel any less skeezy than I did when I got in.
After I manage to get the overly fluffy towel around my wet hair, I swipe my hand across the mirror to clear the fog coating it.
I hate what I see, and I don't mean the small lines forming at the corners of my eyes or that one sunspot near my left temple that has been stubborn to every treatment I've attempted. I'm disappointed as if I've wasted so much of my life doing nothing. I know I was sheltered. I know there are terrible things in the world. I know the news glosses over a lot of stuff. If I were to believe the conspiracy theorists, there's a whole lot worse stuff going on that a lot of us have no idea about, but I also feel like I should be capable of making more of a difference in this world than I actually have so far.
Chapter One is a great program, but are we doing enough? Are we teaching kids to read and offering program assistance to children who still end up in a position where they have to strip naked and offer to finger older women just to go to college?
I hate that I even darkened that door tonight. Maybe being unknowledgeable about these things is better, but then doesn't that make me part of the problem?
If Sadie is connected to that place somehow, did she go there as a customer like I did tonight or did she have to be the one someone selected from a menu?
A sob escapes my throat before I can stop it because I already know the answer to that question. I didn't see "hurt a junkie" on the list of options, but I can't help but think that might be on a different list, one reserved for a different type of clientele.
I swipe angrily at the tears dripping down my face.
Look what that young man Ben chooses to do so he can go to college.
Sadie has been offered everything in the world, and she still chose to burn it to the ground at every single turn. She has squandered so many things that others would take and turn into a success story. There's a glaringly obvious difference between someone willing to do anything they must to be successful and one who has never appreciated a thing.
Before I can dive deeper into the reasons my sister behaves the way she does, the doorbell to the suite sounds.
It's so late, but I'm starving and ordered a bowl of soup before I got in the shower.
Only when I pull the suite door open, Mr. Yarrow, the man working on Sadie's case, is staring at me instead of room service.
Instead of stating why he's here, he walks right past me into my hotel room, as if he has every right in the world to do so.
I glare at his back as I snap the door closed.
Before I can demand he give me answers, the doorbell rings again.
The room service man doesn't deserve the attitude with which I open the door, but I'm so irritated I can't curb the emotions.
I sign for the soup, leaving a generous tip because I'm a jerk, before standing to the side so the service cart can be wheeled into the room.