Dying for the Highlife Read Free Page B

have to take my word on that.”
    “Shit,” I muttered. I didn’t trust her. But I wanted to because I needed the goddamned money. I knew that was a problem. There’s nothing like a chump who wants to believe. That’s the human dynamic that keeps con artists and sham companies in business. People throw away millions every year on weight loss remedies, baldness cures, exercise programs that promise the perfect body, and various get-rich-quick schemes. All because they’re desperate and want to believe. So why, I asked myself, was I seriously considering Sheila’s unlikely offer? I paused for a long moment, until I could answer the question in a way I thought was truthful:
Because I had no better prospects, and not much to lose.
That didn’t make me feel particularly good, but at least I was being honest.
    “Okay, Sheila,” I said. “I’m not quite sure what you’re up to, but you sign a contract and we got a deal.”

3
    H eather Sanderson rubbed coconut oil on her bronze stomach, letting her fingers linger over the smooth muscle beneath the skin. Then she applied the lotion to her shoulders and arms, working it evenly around the straps of her bikini bra. Lying back on the lounge chair, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The shadow of the balcony would soon fall over the small porch, and she wanted to enjoy the last available sun. The porch was tiny and afforded maybe two hours of sun a day—even less now that it was September. But she couldn’t bring herself to lie out at the apartment complex pool, not among the snot-nosed, noisy brats, and their mothers with their cottage cheese thighs and saggy tits. Last time she tried, a group of middle-aged husbands were at the pool, showing off their fat, hairy bodies and sneaking glances at her, hoping to catch a good enough look so they could fantasize about her the next time they screwed their frumpy wives. It was almost enough to make her sick.
    Instead, Heather lay on her chair on the small patio, eyes closed, imagining she was on a white-sand beach somewhere in the tropics, on a private stretch of coast, maybe in Hawaii or Tahiti. It was a favorite fantasy of hers, but it never lasted long because the sounds of cars in the parking lot or the neighbor’s loud TV always ruined it for her. But today she was wearing earplugs, and she was pleased with the sensation. It made her feel as if she could be anywhere, as long as she kept her eyes shut.
    “I see you’re getting a lot done today, as usual,” Eric Sanderson said, his voice startling her. He stood with his hands on his hips, blocking the sunlight.
    “I love you too, babe,” Heather said, resisting the urge to ask him what he was doing home so early.
    “And the apartment is still a mess,” Eric said. He went back inside, opened the refrigerator, and cracked a beer.
    She lifted herself from the chair and followed him in.
    “I take it the job interview didn’t go well?”
    “You might say that. Five minutes into it, the guy tells me I’m not what he’s looking for. Can you believe that? I get all dressed up, drive out there, and he tells me that after five fuckin’ minutes.”
    She watched him chug his beer and open another one. Yeah, get drunk, she thought. That’ll fix everything.
    He sat down and banged his beer bottle on the kitchen table, the loud noise startling her.
    “You’re gonna need to go back to the strip club.”
    “Bullshit,” she said, heat rising in her face.
    Eric scowled and pushed his tongue against his lower lip, the way he always did when he was angry. He was a good-looking man, but goddamn, he was ugly when he did that.
    He stood abruptly, and she could see the muscles of his chiseled physique bulge under his white button-down shirt. He yanked his tie off, balled it, and flung it across the room. Heather wanted to move away from him, but she held her ground.
    “What do you suggest we do for money, then?” he hissed. Heather kept her expression blank; Eric had gotten