Page 17 of Paint the Town, Dove
“Emory-Blake,” I corrected.She only goes by Emory-Blake.
He ignored me, fitting his earpiece. “She’s got quite the character.”
I leaned back.“Managers usually do.”
“Especially when they’re invested, no?”
Heat ascended the slope of my neck. “What are you getting at, Mr. Turner?”
He glanced behind him, throwing a wink Scarlett’s way. She didn’t react.
Good girl.
“Tough cookie to crack that one,” he laughed. “I like it.”
“Her,you mean?”She’s not a fuckingit.
“No need to get touchy, Mr. Spectre –” he adjusted his tie – “My eyes do betray me from time to time.”
I tasted blood in my mouth as I said, “We aren’t an item, if that’s what you’re implying.”
His eyes lit up, slender like a fox. “Then, Mr. Spectre, I won’t need to worry about anyone escorting her to tonight’s afterparty? I’d love to show her the V. I. P.”
He didn’t wait for the clapboard – the go ahead to commence our interview. He instigated this little game, waiting to get a rise out of me, knowing he could. He was no longer the gaudyAbeTurner, but the performativeMr.Turner; a curious interviewer, all smiles, knowing I’d smile back because the cameras were now rolling.
Composure.
Smile.
Laugh.
Smile.
Smile. Smile.SMILE.
Abe Turner hasn’t seen your real smile. That smile was reserved for the people who mattered, thoseImattered to. No, this smile was the one my mother taught me unwillingly. The smile she fabricated for so long it grew underneath her face… underneath her joy.
She forgot her smile, but I didn’t. Now, I just replicated the one she wore all too well.
As long as he thinks I’m smiling.
How does a bad man know the difference?
Chapter Six
Scarlett
Eighteen Years Ago
He was sitting there again.
That lonely boy, always picking out fistfuls of grass by the swing set, playing with something small.
I noticed him about four months ago, right around the time Sinead, Flack and I moved in across the street. Or should I say me.
Just… me.
Did Sinead help me move the boxes into my room?
