Read Online Heiress for Hire by Erin McCarthy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erin McCarthy
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let her use her apartment, since he paid the rent every month. Returning to the city wouldn't magically solve her problems anyway, and if she had to be poor, she'd rather do it in Cuttersville, where no one gave a crap. Back home, some people in her circle would give their left fake breast to see her impoverished.
Her cell phone rang, and she dug it out, resigned and wishing for German chocolate cake. "What?"
"Hey, bitch, what's up?" Her friend Yvonne's voice came blaring over the phone, the background crowded with reggae music.
"Just the same old." Getting disinherited and venturing into Wal-Mart for the first time. Everyday B.S. "Where are you?"
"The Caribbean. Can you hear the music? These guys are so lame, but they're like the hottest thing in town, so of course, we had to be here. You have to get your ass down here. Sierra thinks she saw Orlando Bloom at the pool."
Amanda waited to feel her panties heat up at the thought of Orlando in swim trunks, but for some odd reason it didn't happen. "Sorry, Yvonne, but I think I'm staying here for awhile. There's some hot action I want to see through." If gym-shoe shopping for eight-year-old girls and beginning the great job hunt from hell could be classified as hot.
"Oooh, who is he? Tell all or I'll hate you forever."
A sort of nasty pit assembled in Amanda's stomach, and it wasn't the fact that she had nothing but bits of cardboard masquerading as cereal resting in it. The truth was that Yvonne, who she had always considered one of her closest friends, was not someone she could share her secrets with. She couldn't tell Yvonne that she was out of money. Or ask for advice in gaining an income. Nor could she tell her about this perfectly nice farmer with thick arms who sometimes seemed like he'd walked off the set of Leave It to Beaver.
And that she was attracted to that. To him.
Yvonne wasn't her friend. She was a party pal, who would laugh her Pilates ass off if Amanda got sentimental.
"Sorry," Amanda said in a light-airy tone that was so phony she made herself want to gag. "I'm not in the mood for phone sex."
Yvonne laughed. "You suck. Call me in a couple of days, and we'll go to New York."
"Okay, I'll call you." She wouldn't be going on any trip though. "Bye, Yvonne, have fun."
"I always do."
As had she. Amanda. She had always had fun, and it had been fluff and nothing more.
Amanda hung up the phone and picked up Baby and set her on the counter. "Danny was right. I'm like that stupid Barbie, only it's not my bag that's fake. It's the whole me. Everything about me is fake."
Baby looked at her. Baby barked. Amanda stared at her button nose and her luminous brown eyes and scooped her up before Baby broke out a violin and starting playing it.
"Jesus, okay, enough of this self-analysis crap. I sound like Dr. Phil. Let's go call Boston and Shelby and ask about the rent money." She could think it all to death while she slowly wasted away from malnutrition, or she could do something about it.
Amanda was halfway up the stairs, planning to use the phone in her bedroom, since unlike cell phone minutes it was free, when she heard something.
A faint muffled crying. The sound was distant, faded, but grief-stricken. A woman.
Amanda stopped walking and gave a slow look around. She was alone on the steps, and the sound seemed to be coming from upstairs. "Okay, that's weird. All alone in the house. Strange crying. What do you think that means, Baby?"
She was certain it meant that the noise was coming from outside, because obviously it couldn't be coming from the inside.
The crying got louder.
It must be her next door neighbor. There was a federal blue house on the other side of Amanda's driveway that had a middle-age couple living in it.
"Someone's pitching a bitch." Amanda raised her eyebrow at Baby, a bit annoyed. How could she feel sorry for herself with that racket going on?
Her cell phone rang, and she dug it out, resigned and wishing for German chocolate cake. "What?"
"Hey, bitch, what's up?" Her friend Yvonne's voice came blaring over the phone, the background crowded with reggae music.
"Just the same old." Getting disinherited and venturing into Wal-Mart for the first time. Everyday B.S. "Where are you?"
"The Caribbean. Can you hear the music? These guys are so lame, but they're like the hottest thing in town, so of course, we had to be here. You have to get your ass down here. Sierra thinks she saw Orlando Bloom at the pool."
Amanda waited to feel her panties heat up at the thought of Orlando in swim trunks, but for some odd reason it didn't happen. "Sorry, Yvonne, but I think I'm staying here for awhile. There's some hot action I want to see through." If gym-shoe shopping for eight-year-old girls and beginning the great job hunt from hell could be classified as hot.
"Oooh, who is he? Tell all or I'll hate you forever."
A sort of nasty pit assembled in Amanda's stomach, and it wasn't the fact that she had nothing but bits of cardboard masquerading as cereal resting in it. The truth was that Yvonne, who she had always considered one of her closest friends, was not someone she could share her secrets with. She couldn't tell Yvonne that she was out of money. Or ask for advice in gaining an income. Nor could she tell her about this perfectly nice farmer with thick arms who sometimes seemed like he'd walked off the set of Leave It to Beaver.
And that she was attracted to that. To him.
Yvonne wasn't her friend. She was a party pal, who would laugh her Pilates ass off if Amanda got sentimental.
"Sorry," Amanda said in a light-airy tone that was so phony she made herself want to gag. "I'm not in the mood for phone sex."
Yvonne laughed. "You suck. Call me in a couple of days, and we'll go to New York."
"Okay, I'll call you." She wouldn't be going on any trip though. "Bye, Yvonne, have fun."
"I always do."
As had she. Amanda. She had always had fun, and it had been fluff and nothing more.
Amanda hung up the phone and picked up Baby and set her on the counter. "Danny was right. I'm like that stupid Barbie, only it's not my bag that's fake. It's the whole me. Everything about me is fake."
Baby looked at her. Baby barked. Amanda stared at her button nose and her luminous brown eyes and scooped her up before Baby broke out a violin and starting playing it.
"Jesus, okay, enough of this self-analysis crap. I sound like Dr. Phil. Let's go call Boston and Shelby and ask about the rent money." She could think it all to death while she slowly wasted away from malnutrition, or she could do something about it.
Amanda was halfway up the stairs, planning to use the phone in her bedroom, since unlike cell phone minutes it was free, when she heard something.
A faint muffled crying. The sound was distant, faded, but grief-stricken. A woman.
Amanda stopped walking and gave a slow look around. She was alone on the steps, and the sound seemed to be coming from upstairs. "Okay, that's weird. All alone in the house. Strange crying. What do you think that means, Baby?"
She was certain it meant that the noise was coming from outside, because obviously it couldn't be coming from the inside.
The crying got louder.
It must be her next door neighbor. There was a federal blue house on the other side of Amanda's driveway that had a middle-age couple living in it.
"Someone's pitching a bitch." Amanda raised her eyebrow at Baby, a bit annoyed. How could she feel sorry for herself with that racket going on?
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