Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“The fact that you think that’s something to brag about is disturbing,” Jenna mutters from where she’s slumped against the fence, obviously still a reluctant spectator to this entire shit show. (Literally.)
“Not as disturbing as your bad attitude,” Eduardo shoots back, earning a slow middle finger salute from Jenna that she only partially conceals behind her coffee.
“That’s not family friendly,” I remind her with a cluck of my tongue.
“Fuck off, Ms. Goodie Two-Shoes,” she shoots back. “How’s that for family friendly?”
I simply smile in return.
I’m no Goodie Two-Shoes, a fact I prove by ditching my pooper scooper the second the “go” whistle blares and sprinting past Eduardo and Millie to get to the concentrated poo area at the back of the astroturf field before them. There, I drop to my knees and begin bagging turds, fast and furious.
I’m so focused on the task at hand, I don’t realize the dog handlers have set the entire herd of chihuahuas loose on the obstacle course in the center of the space until I turn back to see Millie tripping over two white puppies in rainbow clown costumes and going down hard.
Thankfully, however, she doesn’t land in any of the yucky stuff. But I saw the knee brace she took off last night before taking her turn in the shower, and I owe her a solid for helping me with my skates.
Without missing a beat, I dash over, helping her up with one hand while I juggle my bags with the other.
“Thank you!” she says, as I press her scooper into her hand.
“No problem!” I flash her a quick thumbs-up before running toward another area of high concentration, dodging leaping chihuahuas as I go. I catch a flash of Eduardo on the other side of the enclosure, also down on his hands and knees now that he’s seen how much success I’m having, but it’s too late. There’s no way he’s catching up to my collection.
I am the Princess of Poo!
The Sultan of Scooping!
The Empress of Excrement!
“Victory is mine!” I shout, spinning to thrust my handful of full bags into the air.
I lock eyes with Leo, now standing beside Ainsley at the monitor station, just as one of my bags breaks.
I have a split second to realize what the warmth splatting down on top of my head is. The next second, I’m racing for the trash can where I tossed my coffee, praying I’ll make it in time.
twelve
. . .
Leo
Hovering outside the ladies’ locker room, I feel like a creep, but the clown college is mostly deserted at this early hour on a Sunday, and Caroline has been in there a very long time.
I sent the rest of the cast home half an hour ago and the crew is nearly finished packing up the equipment van.
“Caroline?” I ask, after a good five minutes have passed with no sound from inside. “Hello?” I wait another beat before adding, “Are you all right?”
“Define…all right,” she finally responds, her voice halting and thin as it echoes off the tiles.
I wince. “Is there anything I can get you? There’s a convenience store a few blocks away. Maybe some soap? Shampoo? A blow torch?”
“Yes. Blow torch. I’ll burn my hair down to the scalp and start fresh. Clean slate.”
I huff out a soft laugh, grateful to hear that she hasn’t lost her sense of humor. “I hear you. I’m so sorry. That was gross.”
“It was way more than gross. I’ve washed my hair five times. Five, Leo, and I still don’t feel clean.” She sighs. “But it’s nice that the clowns have shampoo and conditioner in their locker room showers. It’s good quality, too. Smells like bubblegum.”
“Bubblegum is a very clown-friendly scent,” I observe, feeling like an idiot. But nothing in my background has prepared me to comfort a woman I’ve injured in this particular manner. And no, I didn’t toss the turd myself or buy the cheap doodie bags, but I put her in the path of disaster.
I can’t help feeling responsible.
And awful. And desperate to turn her day around.
“But on the bright side,” I add, “you won immunity, and a private performance of Bingo the Clown’s Downhome Doggie Jamboree this evening. It’s supposed to be a fun show. Lots of jokes and dogs and…jamboreeing. Whatever that is. I think it’s a southern thing.”
“If you make me watch a man in a clown suit jamboree with dogs right now, I may have an aneurism,” she shoots back, her voice wobbling again. “I know being afraid of clowns is cliché and ridiculous, but I’m afraid of them. I really am. Now, I think I’m afraid of chihuahuas, too. And plastic bags. And astroturf. And anything else that reminds me of this morning.”
“Understood,” I say, my producer wheels spinning. “Then, with your permission, I’ll pass the ticket to the private show on to Eduardo. He has a background in theater. He’ll probably enjoy it, and we’ll be able to get some B reel to pad the episode. It might turn out to be interesting. He said he’d met Bingo once before, back in the nineties, when he did a performance at Eduardo’s acting school in Miami.”