Sick Day Read Online Free PDF Page B

gates she had shut and locked.
    “I’m sorry, Cameron. I need to get home.”
     
    } i {
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Present Day
     

Chapter 9
     
    7:38 AM
     
    M idway through my second lap in some scene out of Gran Turismo 6 for the Xbox One, my phone vibrates. I don’t have time to pause the race with its better-than-reality graphics, so I quickly snap up the phone and stare at the jAppe chat.
    My heart pounds underneath my chest at the response on the screen.
     
    Hope: Sorry. I can’t. Too much to get done before the big move next week.
     
    Fuck.
    And then:
     
    Hope: I’m really sorry :-(
     
    Double-fuck. I type a quick response.
     
    Me: I’ll meet you at the Ogilvie.
     
    Less than three seconds pass before I have her rebuttal.
     
    Hope: Don’t make me embarrass you, Cameron!
     
    Done.
    I check the time and determine that 1) she has already boarded the 316 Metra train to Chicago and 2) I don’t have much time left to firm up the details of our day—possibly our last day—together before she moves away.
    The next thing I do is dial Gordon’s number. Of course he picks up before the first ring has ended; those kids are killing him.
    “You need a job,” I tell him, watching the time because I have less than half an hour to get to the train station.
    “Funny you should—”
    “I need your Tesla, Gordo,” I interrupt, stepping out the of Bat Cave and walking to the front closet. I slide the doors open and stare at my small wardrobe of jackets, shoes, and other fine apparel on one half. The other side is vacant.
    “What? No fucking way!”
    “I’ll pay your electricity bill for a fucking month. I just need the car.”
    “What’s wrong with your BMW?” he asks, his voice pitched high like it always does when he gets anxious.
    “It’s not a Bentley.” I file through a couple of jackets and remember the weather forecast for this afternoon—89F. Screw the jacket. I squat to get a closer look at the shoes. Hope will notice the shoes, and the nicer they are, the more relaxed she’ll be. Which means she’ll be more inclined to play sick day with me.
    “This isn’t a good idea,” Gordon tells me. “I know what you’re up to, and it’s a fucking horrible idea, Cam.”
    “I know.” I grab a pair of Skechers. Not the Chucks, not the Mephistos, or the Hush Puppies, but the brown Skechers. They’re clean and unpretentious. They look good with these jeans, the Tommy’s that make my legs look both lean and solid. “But I’m doing it anyway, Gordo, and I need your car.”
    Time check—7:43.
    “Can you meet me at the Art Institute at noon?” I ask him.
    The huffing and puffing on the other end of the line is an embarrassment. For Gordon. “I can’t give you my car!”
    “Is the battery dead? Because if it’s not, I really don’t understand your hesitation. It’s a car, not your firstborn.”
    “Not only will Miranda castrate me if she finds out I’m lending it to you , of all fucking people, but this is just bad news!”
    “Art Institute. Noon. Or you’re flying on your own the next time you have a crazy boy weekend with Josh and Landon.”
    I hear some groaning, then Gordon tells Jeffrey it’s not pancake Tuesday, not even close, so eat the damn Rice Krispies, because he’s on the phone. To me, he offers a heavy sigh and asks, “What’s in it for me?”
    “I just told you,” I say, keeping my patience in check. “My companionship on the next boys’ trip.”
    “Okay, right, yes you said that.” Gordon in panic mode is a time-waster even when he’s coming down off that hyperactive high. “Then tell me what you’re after with Hope. What’s the point of this? I dealt with your bullshit the last time. Remember three years ago? I don’t want Riley hurt again, and I can’t be your accomplice in this.”
    I pause at the front door, checking my pockets and making sure I have the keys. My hands feel clammy all of a sudden, and my stomach growls. “I need her to say four