Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 41621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
“Here’s our new life, kitten,” I say as the bus leaves us behind with a spray of gravel.
Heavy sigh. Long look around.
Trees. Trees are our new life.
There’s a bus stop here for a reason, though. There’s a campground just on the other side of the tree line, without any tents or fires or empty beer cans on the ground that I can see, which means nobody is staying here.
I could stay here. It’s empty, but… I make the sign of the cross when I hear animal sounds coming from the woods.
God, I hope there are cabins around. I’m a city girl, through and through. My whole life, Mom always moved us from one urban jungle to the next, and anytime I saw a forest or mountains, it was like some big dark dangerous question mark.
My hope for cabins turns into something else as my body reminds me of the large Diet Coke I drank on the bus. Becoming a campground squatter sounds way better than the life I’m fleeing, but I can’t imagine peeing outside where the bears and rabbits can judge me.
The sound of an approaching car makes me jump. I spin on the toes of my retro Reeboks and shift Frida so she’s looking forward as though she’s here to protect me. She mewls annoyance, pin pricks of her claws poking into the skin just below my collarbones.
There’s an old pickup is trundling down the road from somewhere up the mountain as I scan the area a bit more closely.
I spot a sign for the Paint Forest Program, which must be an art retreat, judging by the palette graphic. With a squint, I take in the road beyond, where it twists its way through the trees and upward until it disappears.
Looking up that road, my neck prickles.
There are so many shadows and trees, anyone or anything could be hiding in there.
Watching me.
It feels like someone is watching me right now. Someone or something.
I don’t want to get in trouble for trespassing on the campground though. I look down at my feet just a few steps off the side of the blacktop, when the pickup driver waves out the window at me.
I wave back and start to walk away. The truck and female driver aren’t giving me security vibes but I’m not one for confrontation of any kind, so I tuck my chin down and start to panic, wondering where I’m going to be sleeping tonight.
And where I can go to pee.
Heat rises on my chest and cheeks as the chug chug of the pickup pulls up next to me and a window winds down. The driver grins, her eyes lighting up.
“Hey, you’re here!” she says as I try to smile back. “First day of the job and right on time. I made a note about the bus schedule you sent. Can’t wait to show you your cabin! Just got the plumbing all fixed in the bathroom too. Big bonus, I can tell you! Hot showers and everything.”
Cabin.
Bathroom.
Indoor plumbing.
Her voice is genuine and friendly, and her smile spreads all the way into her soft blue eyes, where a network of crow’s feet suggest smiles aren’t unusual for her. From the look of her browned skin, she’s not a sunblock sort of gal. She’s all granola vibes and from the smudge of blue paint on her fingertips, an artist.
I’ve never thought faster in my life.
She’s expecting someone. She thinks I’m that someone. There was no one else on the bus, so whoever was supposed to come, clearly didn’t.
If I were the person she expected, I would have a job. And if I’m on time, but I’m the only one here, then it means the job isn’t technically filled.
I plaster a smile on my face. “Yep. I made it! Like I was supposed to. Because you expected me.”
She throws the shifter on the steering wheel column upward into park, swings open the creaking door and hops out onto the dusty side of the road. She’s either a vibrant young fifty-something or a mature forty-something, dressed in paint-splattered coveralls, handmade clay rainbow earrings, and a smile so huge I’m immediately calmer.
“I’m Lindsay.” She extends a hand, which I shake. “Francesca, right?”
“I go by Tess,” I blurt out like I’m some 007 covert operative, thinking on my feet with Frida purring against my chest as my unsuspecting sidekick.
Tess must be a plausible nickname for Francesca, because Lindsay doesn’t blink.
“Tess it is! I’m telling you, I’m so glad we found you. Rubenesque figure models aren’t as easy to come by as you might think, especially on such short notice. You’d be surprised how hard it is to find alternative body type models.”
Rubenesque? It’s not my first encounter with the word, but it reminds me of plus-size Barbie dolls. I guess that’s fair, even though my legs have never been Barbie-long. That bitch would never drag her hems on the ground the way my five-foot nothing ass does.