Obannon Drive is finally here, thank the sweet lord. I take the corner like I’m driving a stolen getaway car, tires whining and my car tilting like it’s ready to throw in the towel.
My Dad's street is calmer, but that doesn't slow me down. Halfway down, I spot his house on the right. I've only been back two days, and it still feels weird.
Home sweet dysfunctional home.
I slam the wheel to the right, nearly flip the damn car in the process, and almost T-bone our gardener’s little Toyota as he’s pulling out.
He honks like his life depends on it, shouting out something.
God knows what.
“Sorry,” I finally pull into the drive, my poor car gasping as I slam the brakes and kill the engine.
I grab my bag from the passenger seat and launch out like I’m storming the beaches of Normandy.
The front door’s just opened,perfect.
“Hi Dad,” I bolt past without stopping as he stands yelling at Martha, our housekeeper, who’s nodding like she hasn’t been hearing the same orders every damn morning for twenty years.
He turns. “Hey. Not so fast, young lady. Look at the state of…”
Nope. Not today, Coach Dad.
I blitz past Martha and sprint up the staircase, two steps at a time, ignoring whatever grumblefest he’s launching into below.
Screw that Blake. Screw rush hour. And if I don’t look like a functioning adult in ten minutes flat, screw me too.
I barrel into my bedroom, slam the door shut with my hip, and strip like I’m in a competitive speed round of Naked and Afraid.
My clothes hit the floor. I’m in the shower before my brain has time to catch up. A quick wash, no time to enjoy the heat. In and out, then towel off like a tornado.
I toss the towel and dig into my closet to grab the deep red silk blouse that hugs in all the right places, and says, ‘Yes, I have a degree. Also, no, you can’t afford me.’
I pair it with a sharp, tailored pencil skirt, black, high-waisted, smug. Blazer, black again, fitted, lapels so crisp they could cut glass. Heels? Not stripper-tall, but enough to let the world know I could step on its neck and make it say thank you.
Jewelry, small gold hoops, thin bracelet, nothing flashy. Structured leather tote bag. Classy. Deadly.
Hair gets a quick comb-through before I slick it back into a ponytail. Not tight-librarian ponytail, more like a don’t-fuck-with-me energy.
Makeup, just enough to erase last night’s sins. Smoky liner, gloss, and finish with a quick spray of my favoriteBond No.9 NoMad Eau de Parfum.
I let out a deep sigh and glance at the mirror, giving myself a once-over.
“Damn you look good, girl,” I murmur, grabbing my laptop case and tote from the desk.
Back out of the bedroom, my heels click like warning shots as I tear down the hallway. The stairs are a death trap, but I take them fast anyway, way too fast, and nearly collide with Martha coming up with a laundry basket.
She gasps and clutches the basket to her chest like it’s a bulletproof vest. “Morning, Cassy, you know, your father—”
“Bye, Martha!” I shout over my shoulder, not breaking pace as I sprint for the front door, fling it open, and launch myself outside like I’m late for the Olympics.
Down the front path, keys already in hand, I reach my car, throw the door open, toss my laptop case and tote into the passenger seat, slide behind the wheel, and fire the engine.
Screw subtlety, I tear out of the driveway. Vegas Aces, here I come…
The red blur of my car skids up to the security barrier of the Silver State Arena like I’m a Fast & Furious extra who missed the casting call.
The guard steps forward, a cigarette barely hanging from his bottom lip, and a clipboard clutched in one hand. He peers down through my window as I wind it down.
