Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
"Well, your sister and I have that in common. The not crying thing. My therapist says it is unhealthy. She'll be happy I had a manic cry today," I said. "Come on, want to get some very expensive, very unsatisfying food to hold us over until we can get out of here and eat something greasy and disgusting?"
"Sounds like a plan," he agreed.
In the end, Huck had been a perfect date. And his effortless lying about his profession left me speechless and the various guests tried to figure out where they might have known him from, why the name didn't sound familiar. After all, he was in a designer suit, and on the arm of one of the grandchildren—step or not—of one of the wealthiest families on the East coast.
"Okay, I have to ask," I said as we got our fifth round of cucumber sandwiches. "Where did you get the suit?"
"Teddy," he told me, smiling. "He had the idea that when I jacked cars, I should do it in a suit, so no one suspected anything. It worked like a fucking charm, too. These are disgusting," he said, as he had with each previous one.
"I know," I agreed, glad that the crowd was starting to dwindle down, hoping I could get one last conversation in with my mom.
Eventually, I got one.
Again, thanks to Huck's skills at pretending to be someone he was not, leading my step-father away for a moment so I could get a few desperate words in with my mother.
After that, I linked my arm through Huck's, leading him toward the small crowd that was making their way out.
"Harmon," my grandmother called. "We need to have some words," she said, making my belly drop.
"Collette," Huck said, voice dropping at the end, sounding apologetic. "I'm afraid we double-booked social engagements today," he told her, and I had to press my lips together to keep from smiling. Social engagements. The term sounded so absurd coming out of his dirty-talking biker mouth.
"Oh, of course," my grandmother said, clearly flustered, not used to being denied something. "Do come again... Huck."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Huck said, giving her a nod, then turning and leading me confidently out through the arbor.
"I could kiss you," I declared, meaning it as light, happy, but seeing my mistake when he looked over and down at me, eyes warm. "I mean, not really. Just, you know. You were really amazing today, Huck," I told him. "That was nowhere near as terrible as it usually is. Thank you for that."
"You don't have to thank me, babe. Letting you go in there alone is like throwing a puppy in a viper den," he told me, handing me my helmet.
"He has an adrenaline fetish," I said to a couple who passed, leveling my gaze with the woman. "You know how powerful men are," I added, getting a smirk from her husband and an eye roll from the wife who knew that the most daring thing her man had ever done was go out in the summer without seventy SPF.
"Do you hate them all?" Huck asked, watching me as I adjusted the helmet.
"Hate all who?"
"Rich people."
"No, actually. I really like the rich ones. The "new money" ones. It's the old money, wealthy ones that drive me nuts. All the pomp and arrogance, all the secrets they pay a fortune to cover up. It's ugly. The rich ones are amazing. When I was sixteen, an up-and-coming pop star tossed me her keys to drive her Lamborghini around the neighborhood. If they make a mistake, it hits the news sites and shows, and they kind of own it, shrug off their flaws. I like that a lot more than the people like my grandparents who project perfection when it's all lies."
"I feel like there's a story there" Huck said, putting on his helmet. "One that might have to do with why they really hate you like they do," he said, being a lot more intuitive than I was giving him credit for.
"Does it matter?" I asked, head shaking as I struggled to keep eye-contact.
"Yeah, it matters."
"Why?"
"Because I give a shit about you," he said, shrugging it off. It wasn't a grand romantic declaration, but I felt something inside me respond to the words, knowing that men like Huck didn't tend to use flowery words, that giving a shit about you was as romantic as they got.
"Tell you what, if you get me out of here, and get me something real to eat, I will tell you it all," I told him.
I didn't tell anyone the story.
I guess as Jones got older, I did give him dribs and drabs of what actually happened all those years ago, but I had never sat anyone down and given them it all.
Hell, even my therapist didn't have all the details.