Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“What’s with the cake?” she asks through the motion of chewing.
“We’re celebrating.”
“We are?”
“Yep.” I lick the chocolate filling off my spoon.
“Can you be a little less secretive?”
I shrug. “We’re celebrating that I have more free time and money. I can now pay you proper board for Charlie.”
She makes big eyes at me. “Did he give you a pay rise? More off-time?”
I take a big bite. My mouth is too full to answer.
“Well?”
I wipe the cream from the corner of my mouth with my good thumb and lick it clean. “Not exactly.”
“Val.” Kris pushes her plate away and folds her arms on the table. “What’s going on?”
“I dropped out of uni.”
I’m saying it like I just told her it’s hot today, hoping she’ll let it go, but I already know better.
“Like in, quit your studies?” she exclaims.
Charlie looks up from the television.
“Shh.” I give her my best angry frown. “You’ll make him think something’s wrong.”
“Something is wrong.”
“Kris.”
“Why?”
“Look at it this way, I don’t have the burden of paying a huge school bill any longer, or worries about exams, and spending late nights studying anatomy.”
She dips her head, searching for my eyes. “Why?”
I sigh. “The cook had a stroke. I took over her duties.”
“They’re going to hire another cook, right? You can’t give up. Val, you’ve completed more than half of the course!”
“I can’t keep up the job and the studies. It’s too much.”
Her lips thin. “You’re letting them win.”
“I don’t have a choice,” I say through gritted teeth. “I work until dinner is served and the kitchen is clean, which means I’m lucky if I get off at ten. God, I’m lucky if I go to bed by midnight, and I’m up at four every morning.” I don’t say that Gabriel occupies another hour or more of my day, fucking me senseless and giving me orgasms until I pass out.
Emotions play on her face. Thank God she doesn’t say something meaningless like she’s sorry.
“It’s for Charlie.” I lower my voice. “Nothing will matter anyway if he’s dead. He’s all I’ve got.”
She covers my hand with hers. It is a big, strong hand with cat scratches and dog bite marks, and a calloused skin that tells its own story. “You’ve got me, babes.”
Warmth spreads through my chest, making tears build at the back of my eyes. “Thank you.”
“You can still work here. I mean, after…”
“I know.” After nine years, I’m not sure I’ll still have the stomach for this city. “Eat your cake. I paid a lot of money for it.”
“You better hide the rest or Charlie will devour it in the night.”
Worry nags at me. “He’s picking up weight.”
“Sorry. I’m not here much, I’m afraid, or I would’ve taken him out for exercise.”
“I have an idea.”
“Uh-uh. When you get that light bulb moment look, I get worried.”
I prop my foot on the seat of my chair, hugging my knee. “He can walk the dogs.”
“You mean them?” She throws her thumb at the door adjoining to the clinic.
“Yes! He crosses the road by himself, right? We can try with one dog first and see how it goes. I can go with him tomorrow.”
“I suppose it can’t do harm.”
“It’ll be good for him to get out more, breathe in some fresh air.”
She snorts. “What fresh air? In case you haven’t noticed, this is Joburg.”
I’m not having my spirits dampened, not tonight. “Charlie and I’ll do the first doggie walk together.”
“You’re a good sister, Val. Charlie’s lucky to have you.”
“No, I’m lucky to have him.”
I’m still raw about my studies, but there’s a reason I’m doing this. The reason is a beautiful, innocent boy trapped in the body of a man who sits on Kris’ couch with a huge smile on his face. All it takes to make Charlie happy is a piece of cake. I should learn from him.
* * *
Gabriel
The therapist knocks on my door at ten sharp, as agreed. Dorothy Botha is a short, attractive woman in her late forties. She’s wearing tight jeans and a stretch shirt, not the attire I imagined for a psychiatrist. At the rate I’m paying for the house call, I expected her to show up in Dior or Gucci.
She shakes my hand, and offers a smile. “Mr. Louw.”
“Call me Gabriel. Thank you for meeting Carly at home. It’s more comfortable for her in her own environment.” And there’s less chance for one of our enemies to discover my daughter has instability issues. They’ll use anything they can against me.
I show her to the reading room where Carly sits on the couch, her legs pulled up under her. My daughter gives me a cutting look when we enter and doesn’t offer Dorothy a greeting. Every part of her body languages says she’s not happy about spending her Sunday morning with a shrink.
“Carly, this is Mrs. Botha. Say hi.”