Page 56 of Clean Slade
“No. She used to love it. She always hated the weekends because she wanted to be at school.”
“What changed?”
He shrugged.
“I don’t think anything changed. It probably got harder though. Why?”
I thought about it, but if he wasn’t concerned, there was no point telling him I was. I hardly knew the girl. I didn’t want to overstep any boundaries.
“Is that all?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Want to check out my ass again?” he turned, bent over to unlock Ratatouille’s crate, and laughed out loud when I didn’t waste the opportunity to leer.
“You’re a weirdo,” I told him.
It was such a change from the man at the yurt or even before that. I wondered if this was what he was usually like. When his past wasn’t around to haunt him and his life wasn’t on the line.
I knew he was still hiding things from me, but I much preferred this version of King, who didn’t take everything like a life-or-death situation.
And not just because it meant I got frequent views of his ass.
FOURTEEN
KING
Ihadn’t meant to flirt, but when Slade had looked at me like I’d set his world on fire, it’d been impossible to resist.
Even if I knew nothing could happen between us, I could at least enjoy being desired.
We were from two different worlds, and it was only becoming clearer. It wasn’t just him. Most people didn’t know what it was like growing up the way I had, being the way I had been. The way I still was deep down.
Planning your father’s demise tended to bring out things you’d thought you’d buried a long time ago.
But everything buried could be exhumed.
I tried to go about my day as I normally would. I greeted customers, reassuring them I was okay and my absence had been due to an unexpected illness. I groomed a few of my furry friends and enjoyed their kisses as a reward.
It was all so kosher on the surface. It was all too normal. But in the back of my mind, I knew everything had changed. In the back of my mind, I made an ill attempt at guessing my next steps. What I was supposed to do.
The message that came through on my phone just before Slade entered was clear.
Whatever normalcy I’d managed to add into my life over the past decade was coming to a close. I was going back to old habits.
As promised, a letter arrived for me with the mail that afternoon. I excused myself from my employees—a couple of college dropouts who had more fun trimming dogs’ asses than studying textbooks, and who could blame them—and went to the alley behind my store.
It was usually a spot reserved for trash and smoking, but it was the only place I could think to open the letter without being seen.
I knew it was my father’s doing because it was a plain manila envelope with only my name written on it. The name everyone knew me by.
White Holm, Bishop’s Point. 3 p.m. Cook in need of grease.
Shit.
Fuck.
Shit.
