Take it All by Libby Waterford

Author:Libby Waterford [Waterford, Libby]
Language: eng
Format: epub

Chapter Seventeen

Jake took the curve too fast, but he steered into it and kept pace with the Mustang. His VW wasn’t much to look at, but it had a solid engine. He had another advantage over his quarry—he wasn’t afraid to die.

Untitled work in progress, by Warner Mathis

As they sped down Blue Bird Lane to the main artery that would take them to the Misty Harbor Inn, the location of the fundraiser gala, Warner couldn’t help feeling this entire evening had been terribly surreal. Had he finally broken with reality?

He’d spent the day working. As the owner and manager of three rental properties, there was always something to do, from maintenance to paperwork. But always in the back of his mind was his story. He’d worked a bit every day this week. The damn thing had gotten its hooks in him, like a cat who’d clawed open one of his veins. Once he’d let the blood start to flow, he couldn’t stop it. And what’s more, he didn’t want to.

It wasn’t exactly a smooth drip of words onto the page. He sat there, typing in fits and starts. He was rusty, but it was coming back to him—the rhythm of translating his thoughts into sentences, watching the sentences form paragraphs that flowed together into some sort of coherence. It was a craft he’d honed once before, and his muscles had diminished but not disappeared entirely. He could build them back up again, he was sure.

If he didn’t stop himself by going around the bend first.

He glanced at Selena. She looked like a movie star, her satiny hair flowing free, Angie’s diamonds winking at her ears. Angie would be happy someone was wearing them. She’d always been cavalier with her possessions, giving things away at the drop of a hat. If someone in her life commented on her scarf or bracelet, she’d simply give it to them. She had the generosity of a poor person and resources of a rich one.

But it was fair that Selena didn’t want to drive the Mercedes. And it probably wouldn’t have been safe for her to do so in her strappy sandals either. He should drive it more, though. The car wanted to be driven. It hadn’t even been that damaged in the accident. Angie had been unlucky—skidding on black ice, her side making direct impact with one of the grand oaks they’d so admired when they moved here. She wouldn’t have wanted him to junk her baby. Instead, he’d found a shop willing to work on it for a premium. Money, he’d learned from Angie, could solve most problems.

“You okay?” she asked. “You seem like you’re thinking harder than usual.”

“I’m wondering why I feel like I’m in a surrealist painting. A beautiful surrealist painting, but still, strange.”

“What’s so surreal about driving your tenant who you just fucked to a party you won’t go to as her date in the car your wife died in?” she asked, slightly hysterically.

Okay, so he wasn’t the only one who found the situation bizarre.

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