Forgetting Popper (Los Rancheros #3) Read Free Page A

baths
and names. Why was he changing the only good day in the week I had?
“Get out!”
    He stands up and throws the vase against the
wall. I don’t even flinch. He turns back to me with his hands in
his hair. It raises his shirt so that I can see the thin trail of
hair that disappears behind his buckle. “I’m trying to be nice to
you. Maybe it’s been too long for you to realize that, but usually
you’re supposed to shut your mouth and let someone be nice.” He
sounds exasperated, and sort of desperate. But why would he feel
desperate?
    I look at the water, seeing my hair float
around my chest like spider webs. “I guess it is Sunday,” I mumble.
I hear his rumbling chuckle then he’s next to me again.
    “You’re something else, you know that?” I
keep my mouth shut, who knows what would come out. He lathers my
hair then puts conditioner in it without being told. When it’s time
to come out of the tub, he lifts me from under the arms when I
struggle. Batty wraps me in a towel, picking me up and setting me
down next to my dresser.
    He leaves me there, so I get dressed in my
usual panties and camisole. I’m finished and standing where he left
me, awkwardly. When he comes back, it’s with a broom I’ve never
seen. I follow him back into the bathroom and watch him clean up
the broken vase then leave again. I sit down on the little chair in
the corner and pick up the brush.
    Usually this is my favorite part of the day.
Getting the tangles out, feeling the bristles on my scalp. I love
that feeling. My hair is bleached almost white and falls to below
my waist. It takes forever as I start from the bottom, working all
the knots out, putting in creams to make the process easier. When
I’m done, my arms feel like Jell-O.
    Batty hasn’t returned, but I know if he left
he’s set the alarm, so I don’t go check. I get into bed and turn
off the light. Only then do I notice my cell phone, little brown
pills, and glass of water. I take the ibuprofen with relief then
fall asleep.

Chapter 3
    The ringing starts at an ungodly hour. I
squint at my phone: 8:02 A.M. “Fuck you.” I press ignore and fall
back asleep. At 8:04 A.M. it starts to ring again. I ignore it too,
but by 8:14, I’m spitting mad. I finally accept the call with a,
“Where the fuck do you live? I’m coming to kill you.”
    “Hello, Ms. Dinah!” someone chirps in my ear.
I pull the phone away as it drills into my head. “Mr. Brennick has
an appointment with you at ten this morning and wanted to make sure
you were going to attend.”
    “No.” I try to find the end call button
without opening my eyes, but in the silent house, I can still hear
her talking.
    “He says to tell you that isn’t an acceptable
answer. He wrote here that he would come find you if you didn’t
come to his office today.”
    “Fuck off.” I finally open my eyes to see the
red end button. It immediately starts ringing, so I accept the
call. “I’m coming, goddamnit! Now leave me alone!”
    I toss the phone and sit up. Groaning, I get
to my feet. I feel sixty years old, instead of my usual fifty. I
stand in front of the mirror that takes up the whole wall above the
countertops. I had avoided looking at myself until now. Meeting the
head of a record label requires makeup though, so it is
unavoidable.
    My eyes catch first on my light blue eyes. No
black eyes. There are fading fingerprint size bruises on my neck,
lots of bruises on my arms, and one that fades into my hairline
next to my temple. It could be worse, I remind myself as I dab
concealer over my neck and face. After I’m done with the rest of my
makeup, I turn to my hair, applying products to it so that it looks
greasy, rubbing the strands between my fingers to make it look
unbrushed.
    After I brush my teeth, the closet is next. I
leave off the necklaces, no need to draw attention to that
today.
    When I stroll into Brennick Records at 10:05,
I’m armed for war. My feet are perfectly balanced in wedge ankle
boots.