by Nicole Marsh
The Con
Nicole Marsh
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
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Copyright © 2020 by Nicole Marsh. All rights reserved.
Cover Design: OA Book Covers
Editor: Christina Peacock
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used simply for the purpose of furthering the storyline and do not represent the institutions or places of business in any way. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental or used for fictional purposes.
The Con
I agreed to a shady deal with my neighbor because I was absolutely desperate. It was a bargain connived to change my trajectory in life and provide me with an opportunity to make something of myself. I broke the whole idea down into five easy steps…
Step one: Get close to Collin Franzen.
Step two: Snoop through his parent’s house and find where they keep their valuables.
Step three: Report back to Derek, my criminally-inclined neighbor.
Step four: Split the proceeds after he robs the place.
Step five: Graduate high school and skip town.
An easy way to make some guilt-free money. Like a modern-day Robin Hood, right?
Wrong.
Oh, so very wrong.
I forgot to account for unforeseen variables that would almost immediately create an extra step in my plan. Like…
Step one-point-five: Fall in love with Collin Franzen; the golden-boy quarterback with the gem-colored eyes, a quick wit, and a huge heart.
The Con that was supposed to go off without a hitch has become more complicated than I expected.
Chapter 1
I shuffle the pile of small bills, counting the ones and fives a second time and sighing when I come to the same amount.
$52.50.
After a full day spent, last–minute, filling in for the local catering company, I didn’t even break a hundred dollars in tips. My aching arms and feet begin pulsing even harder, upon learning their efforts were for a meager fifty bucks.
I try to placate myself; any money is better than no money. In time, this town will be behind me, once I scrape together enough money from working these odd jobs, in addition to my regular shifts at the motel.
Unfortunately, that day is not today. Although, it’s looming closer every day, along with my eighteenth birthday and high school graduation.
With determination, I heave my weary body off my rickety kitchen chair. Shuffling towards the counter, I move to open the ancient, silver coffee tin sitting there. I’m not old enough to establish a bank account, yet. So, for now I make do with hiding my small savings in plain sight. Placing the money inside, I pull out the old, folded, lined piece of paper from between the small rolls of bills. I cross a line through the previous amount and write in the new.
Goodbye $253.83.
Hello $306.33.
My life savings. A measly three-hundred bucks.
Sighing, I open one of my cupboards and swipe my hand around until it hits a dented can of SpaghettiOs. Almost all the food I buy is in packaging that’s a little damaged. The imperfections lead to discounted prices, even though there isn’t a change in the taste. Maybe someday I’ll be the type of person that cares how the outside of my food looks but starving stomachs don’t care if packaging is pretty. I’m too broke to be picky, so all the canned and frozen food in my house is a little banged up.
I inspect the pot on the stove and determine it’s clean enough to use again without washing it, then plop the contents of the can inside. Twisting the knob for the burner until the clicking sound turns into flames, I rest against the opposite counter, a mere eight inches away. Tapping my foot, I eye the pot as I wait for it to heat up my dinner.
A knock startles me as I watch the thick, red liquid dotted with yellow circles in the pot begin to bubble. Cautiously, I part the curtains to peer through the tiny, rectangular window placed over the kitchen sink.
Outside, on the dry, patchy grass, stands my hulking, tattooed neighbor, Derek. His eyes jump from my door in front of him, locking onto my face peering through the dirty glass. He mimes opening a door, jabbing at the one before him pointedly.
I guess there’s no way I can avoid him now since he’s clearly seen me. Exhaling heavily, I force myself to open my door, yanking on the flimsy tin, but leaving the old, holey screen between us. I address him politely, “What do you need, Derek?”
Well, that’s polite from me.
He smirks, his sharp incisors flashing in the light of the setting sun, and the dimple on his left cheek makes an appearance. “Is that any way to greet an old friend, Kenzie-girl?”
I shrug, hoping he’ll just get on with it. We both know he’s not an old friend, but I’m tired and hungry, and don’t have time for his bullshit. So, I let it slide.
“Can I come in?” He says, his tone low and secretive.
I don’t move, allowing the silence to linger for a moment and his smirk starts to drop from his face. His dimple slowly disappears, and his dark eyes narrow the longer I stand with the screen between us, unmoving and unspeaking. I finally realize he’s not going to leave without specific prompting from me. Annoyed, I respond, my tone completely flat as I force the word past my lips. “No.”
He glances to his left and runs a hand through his thick, dark hair like this already isn’t going how he expected. I’m sure it isn’t. Derek has that bad boy, motorcycle gang vibe going for him. His head is shaved on the sides with a length of dark, floppy hair across the top. He’s tall and well-muscled, since he spends most of his days lifting cement bags or whatever it is construction workers do. Tattoos cover the visible skin on his arms and chest, winding down into his shirt beyond sight.
I bet I’m the first girl he’s spoken to, in at least three years, that hasn’t swooned when he used his bedroom voice and dimpled grin to try and get what he wants. But unlike those other girls, I’ve grown up in the same neighborhood as him and I know Derek is Trouble--with a capital T. The kind of guy that you want to keep close enough to watch, but far enough you can walk away unscathed when the shit finally hits the fan for him. I know he couldn’t afford his car, motorcycle, and the piles of electronics he’s always moving in and out of his trailer, on the salary of a construction worker. So, shit will hit the fan for him, eventually.
His voic
e is exasperated, and his eyes are hard when he finally speaks again. “Look, I don’t know how to tell you this, but everyone around the park thinks you’ve been acting uppity. Almost as if you’re too good for this place. I think you should come to my party tomorrow night so your old friends don’t become enemies.”
I scan his serious face while I consider his words. Lately I have noticed some of my neighbors stopped greeting me whenever I ride past on my bike. I hadn’t given it much thought before now. Nevertheless, being labeled as uppity when living in a trailer park is never a good thing. Derek is definitely bad news, but his words surprisingly sound like a warning from an “old friend”, as he had put it.
Reluctantly, I nod my head at him. “I’ll think about it.”
Derek’s dark eyes give me another hard stare. “You wanna be careful Kenz. Anything could happen to someone out here alone.” The ‘like you’ belonging at the end of his sentence is silent, but we both know his implication. He continues after a brief pause, “It’s better for people to have your back, than to have people coming after it.” The serious expression falls from his face and he takes a step closer to my screen door. His gaze slides up and down my body clad in a pair of grimy black pants and a stained white blouse, the clothes I wore to my catering job. A salacious look enters his eyes and his lips turn up at the corners. “You sure you don’t want some company, Kenzie-girl?”
With a roll of my eyes, I slam the door shut and turn the measly lock in the handle. “Goodnight, Derek.” I shout through the thin material. His veiled threats about what could happen to me out here has my heart racing. I shake off his words and the residual fear, stepping away from the door without waiting to see if he responds.
A weird gurgle coming from the stove quickly distracts me from our interaction. I rush to check on my dinner, having forgotten about it during my conversation with Derek.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
The pot bubbled over, spilling a coat of red sauce over the blotchy metal sides. During my distraction, the liquid spread across the stovetop to drip down onto my cracked linoleum floor. Eyeing the scene for half a second, I rush to open the closest drawer and grab an oven mitt. I frantically lift the pot, placing it into the sink before turning off the burner.
Pausing for a second to regroup, I push away the stray strands of raven hair that escaped my ponytail and dig under the sink for a spare roll of paper towels and some cleaner. Armed with the only tools I have, I return to the stove and carefully wipe up the spill, avoiding the hot portions of metal near the burner the best I can. My stomach grumbles in protest as I use the entire roll of paper towels to wipe up over half of my dinner.
When I’m finally finished, I plop the rest of the SpaghettiOs into a bowl and sit at the table. They’re now cold and barely edible, a slightly congealed mass of red sauce and tiny circular noodles, but I devour them anyways.
After cleaning up my meal, I take the world’s quickest shower before falling into bed. Despite my bone-deep weariness and throbbing limbs, I lay awake for hours. My mind continues to drift back to Derek’s words, replaying them over and over. The repeat of his message causes me to become slightly paranoid and I force myself not to jump at every howl of the wind and slam of a trailer door.
In an attempt at reassurance, I create a little mantra and continue saying the words to myself as I lay in the dark. At some point, I finally drift into a fitful sleep.
Chapter 2
I jam my feet into the hideous black shoes that are part of my work uniform and hustle out my front door. This morning, I slept through my first alarm and now I’m running late for an extra shift I picked up at the motel. Even though I went to bed at a decent time, I tossed and turned all night, and I feel like I barely closed my eyes before it was time to wake up.
Outside, I peel my bike off the rusted side of the trailer and hop on, immediately spinning the pedals as rapidly as possible—in hopes of making up for lost time due to my late rising. I alternate between sitting and standing, as I pump my legs aggressively, flying down the street. As I’m rounding the corner to my destination, a car honks loudly and someone catcalls me. The noise startles me, causing my head to whip in the direction of the car, and I barely make the turn without falling over. After I regain my balance, I flip off whoever it was, knowing they can’t see me, but committing to the motion to soothe my soul, regardless.
I arrive at work with two minutes to spare. Throwing my chain around the bike rack out front, I fan myself with my shirt a few times before walking into the motel. The air conditioning inside hits my sticky skin, cooling the sweat generated from pedaling in the Alabama summer air. It feels good now, but I know I’ll be sweating again soon, once I begin cleaning the rooms.
My boss, Mr. Mouchard comes strolling out of his office as the sensor sends a dinging noise through the lobby, alerting him someone has entered. When he sees it’s me, his upper lip tweaks into a grin. “Ahh the beautiful McKenzie. I didn’t realize you were working today.”
Mr. Mouchard looks like a rat, with his buck teeth, creepy pencil mustache, and skinny hunched frame. He tries to hide the fact that he’s bald by growing out the few wispy strands of hair he has left and combing them over the top of his head.
I act polite, but distant towards him, even though he creeps me the fuck out with all his innuendos and his inclination to stand too close. Just over a year ago, he was the only person in town willing to hire a sixteen-year-old with no work experience. He also pays cash, under the table, so I don’t have to file taxes by myself or pay a check cashing fee to have access to my money. I may not like the guy, but I need him.
For now.
“Took over Jenna’s shift,” I call over my shoulder, continuing through the front lobby to the custodial closet. I open it quickly, stamping down my timecard simply labeled MC. I’m sure it’s not legal to pay minors under the table, but I guess keeping my name off everything makes it so he’s less likely to get caught.
On the door inside the closet is a list of rooms that need to be cleaned. After a brief glance, I make quick work of loading my cart with the fresh linens and cleaning supplies I need for the day, then wheel the cart out.
Mr. Mouchard lurks behind the front desk, stroking his left index finger across his thin, brown mustache. He’s pretending to stare at something on the counter, but I can feel his eyes following my movements. Ignoring him and his creepy, beady eyes, I roll the cart outside towards the first vacant room on the list.
Room 103.
I do a courtesy knock and yell, “housekeeping.” After a ten second pause with no response, I swipe the universal room key from the cart against the pad next to the door and push down the handle into the room.
A cursory glance confirms it’s empty. I tug the cart in halfway behind me, enough to prop the door open, then take in the state of the room.
The sheets are tangled into a massive, twisted heap on the center of the bed, and the pillows are on the floor. A few dots of brown-red liquid are splattered across the bedding. A broken beer bottle lays on the floor in the far corner and one of the walls has an unidentifiable brown substance smeared across it. In the bathroom, the toilet is unflushed, and the towels are all jumbled on the floor, one entirely drenched with yellow liquid.
Not too bad.
At least not for this place.
I make quick work of donning my yellow rubber gloves and start with gathering all the discarded fabrics. Next, I pick up the large pieces of glass and vacuum over the smaller ones. I spray and scrub the wall, wipe down the bathroom, and replace the linens.
Within twenty minutes the place is as clean as it’s going to get. Sliding my cart out, I move on to the next room, praying the rest are as clean as room 103.
They’re not.
By the time my four-hour shift is over, I smell like rancid sewage.
A combination of miscellaneous substances, splashes of liquid from unclogging toilets, and sweat has completely overtaken the light, fresh scent of my deodorant.
My hair has half fallen out of its ponytail; the dark strands falling around my face and sticking to my clammy neck. My pale blue work top is stained and damp.
With another sigh, probably my twentieth of the day so far, I wheel the cart back towards the lobby. Pausing outside the door, I take a bracing breath to prepare for my next interaction with Mr. Mouchard.
Steeling my spine, I enter the lobby, making a beeline for the custodial closet. Swinging open the door, I park the cart and stamp my timecard again, signifying the end of my shift. I turn to leave, reaching my hand to flip off the light switch, but stop dead in my tracks, stifling a quick inhale when Mr. Mouchard appears in the doorframe.
He smirks at me, holding his hand out. Resting in his palm is a small stack of bills. “Payday,” he rasps out. His breath hits my face, due to his unnecessary closeness. I’m forced to flatten my expression against a flinch when I inhale his used air that smells of bologna and coffee.
My face remains neutral while I reach out to snatch the money, careful to avoid touching his moist palms. I’ve made that mistake in the past and I never will again. It took me half an hour of scrubbing to remove his salami-scented sweat from my body.
Quickly flipping through the stack to assess the amount, I shove the money deep into the pocket of my black jeans and raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to move out of the way. Mr. Mouchard tries to hold out, hoping I’ll slide myself against him to exit. I widen my stance and cross my arms against my chest, settling into the closet, refusing to be forced to touch my creepy, middle-aged boss.
