Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
He was a sight behind his desk, all power and age and wisdom as he motioned for me to sit in the chair across from him.
“I heard everything,” he said as an intro, and I immediately slumped in my chair. I might as well be sixteen again, being scolded for sneaking out after curfew.
“I didn’t drink,” I said.
“I don’t believe you.”
Ouch. That smacked me right in the chest.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he continued. “It’s hard to believe you when you’ve spent the last decade lying to me.”
I furrowed my brow. “I rarely lied to you,” I said. “I just never behaved like you wanted me to.”
“You made false accusations against our security guard—someone who has been with us since you were little—a mere few weeks ago.”
Shame slithered beneath my skin like an oily serpent hell-bent on eating my soul. “I know,” I said, barely holding back the tears building in my chest. Goddammit, being sober was hard. I felt every single ounce of pain, regret, shame, all of it. “And I apologized. Profusely. It was wrong. Evil even. I know that. And I’m sorry. I really am, but I can’t change the past. I’m doing everything I can to change the present.”
Something like pity flashed across his features, and I couldn’t decide if that was better or worse than his disappointment.
“Fine,” he said. “I can see the change in you, Andromeda,” he continued. “And Sephie has done nothing but sing the praises of your success.”
Of course, if my sister said it then he would listen.
“But I’m not going to change my mind about your inheritance until you really prove to me that you’re going to take care of yourself. That you care about your own well-being.”
“I’ve got a job,” I said. “Just like you asked. I show up to every session with Dr. Casson. I see our physician every two weeks for drug and alcohol tests without complaint. I’m trying—”
“You were soaked in vodka while driving, Andromeda,” he cut me off.
“I. Didn’t. Take. A. Drink.” I had to grind each word out or I would crumble. He was damning me even while I actively tried to do every single thing he requested.
“Fine. Maybe you didn’t. But it was too close. You know what the doctors said. If you continue—”
“I’ll die.”
“And I don’t want that.”
I looked up at him from where I’d been studying my hands, and I hated that I couldn’t tell if he really meant that or if he was just saying it for the sake of my mother and sister. My relationship with my father had always been strained, long before any trauma I accumulated in my past. Hell, even before he forbade me to see the love of my life.
“I want you to participate in some community service,” he said, and I held in my groan. Not that I was opposed to community service but I was shuffling a crammed schedule as it was. “I’ve already spoken to a friend at the Sweet Water sheriff’s station. You’ll be doing some clerical work there. It will be good for you to work in a space where you can see what happens to people who throw away their lives.”
“The sheriff’s station?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat.
Would I see Jim there? Work with him?
No, surely not. Clerical work would be in an office and he obviously patrolled the streets. Still, I couldn’t stop the train of thought.
“Yes,” he said. “Do you take issue with that?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“Good,” he continued, his features shifting to a softer, more hopeful kind of look. “I also have someone I want you to meet.”
“Who?”
“Do you remember the Washbrooks?”
“Vaguely,” I answered, stretching my memory back in time. There were countless connections we were forced to entertain over the years. Powerful families or business prospects.
“They’re some of our oldest friends,” he continued, and I bit my tongue to stop myself from saying his oldest friends. I’d been gone for a decade, saying goodbye to this town as I tried to outrun my demons while collecting new ones. Those families had nothing to do with me. “And their son has made a name for himself as an investor. Quite impressive, actually.”
An image of a young boy doing his best to eat everything the caterer set out on a linen covered table flashed behind my eyes. He couldn’t have been more than seven when we’d met.
“Brad?” I asked, finally plucking the name from the recess of my mind.
“Yes,” he said, an impressed look flashing in his eyes. God, I’d remembered a name and he looked at me like I just announced my non-profit had produced record numbers for the quarter.
Not that I had a non-profit, that was Sephie’s department.
Mine? I messed up. Made mistakes. That’s what I was good at.
Not anymore. I have value. I have worth.