True Colors Read Online Free PDF Page B

Brooklyn. The décor was
pedestrian. The only special thing about the Faulk Street Tavern
was the funky antique jukebox standing against one wall.
    But when Monica had phoned her, told her to
put on some decent—by which she meant not paint-spattered—clothing
and haul her ass over to the place at six o’clock, Emma didn’t
argue. Apparently, Mad Max had tracked Monica down at the Ocean
Bluff Inn and conveyed that he was not happy with his tenants. Or,
more accurately, his tenant and Emma, whom he regarded not as a
tenant but as some sort of toxic intruder.
    A cockroach? A bedbug? A
lethal dose of radon? Just because she and Monica had stretched the
terms of the lease—no, they’d merely interpreted it differently from
him—didn’t mean she posed a threat to his precious
house.
    To be safe, however, she’d obeyed Monica’s
edict and dressed in a long brown skirt, a tunic in an interesting
weave of brown, tan and moss green, and her most expensive shoes, a
pair of tooled leather boots that Claudio had bought for her when
things had been going well between them and that, obviously, she
couldn’t return to him once things had stopped going well. Before
dressing, she’d taken a shower and washed her hair, just to make
sure there were no flecks of paint or glue in her long,
unmanageable mane.
    She understood the
importance of making a good second impression on Mad Max, even if
her first impression had flunked the test. This meeting needed to
go well. It was bad enough that he seemed inclined to evict her and
Monica because they’d breached—no, misinterpreted —the lease. What if he
sued them for damages?
    She’d have to pawn her boots, for
starters.
    “We’re going to make nice,” Monica had
explained when she’d phoned. “We’re not going to be stubborn or
sarcastic. Are we,” she added for emphasis.
    “Who, me? Stubborn and sarcastic?”
    “Like that. Behave, Emma. Keep your mouth
shut and let me do the talking. I’m better at this kind of thing
than you are.”
    Anyone in the world had to be better at it
than Emma.
    But she’d washed her hair and donned her
boots. And she’d arrived at the Faulk Street Tavern only five
minutes late, even though she’d had to walk all the way down the
hill into town from the house, a hike of nearly three miles. She
couldn’t afford a car. Living in New York City, she hadn’t needed
one. In Brogan’s Point, she’d gotten used to walking.
    Fortunately, the boots were extraordinarily
comfortable.
    Monica and Max were already seated in one of
the booths when Emma entered the bar. The place wasn’t that
crowded; it was a weeknight, and still a bit early for pub
crawlers. She strolled past the tables and across the scuffed wood
dance floor at the center of the room to the booth her housemate
and her nemesis occupied. Max courteously stood as she neared the
table.
    God, she’d love to paint his
portrait. She’d remembered that his eyes were beautiful, but she
hadn’t remembered exactly how beautiful they were. Like precision-cut amethysts,
surrounded by those dense black lashes.
    She slid into the booth next to Monica,
facing Max. “Hi,” she said. She assumed she was allowed to say that
much.
    Max nodded and resumed his seat. Monica
beamed a thousand-watt smile his way. “Let’s order some drinks,”
she suggested, beckoning a waitress with a wave. “Max? What would
you like?”
    He eyed her warily, then slid his gaze to
Emma and looked every more wary. “What do you have on tap?” he
asked the waitress.
    She rattled off a list of beers. He ordered a
Sam Adams, and Emma requested one, as well. Monica opted for a
dirty martini. “Can you bring a bowl of nuts or something?” she
added. “What does Gus have that we can munch on?”
    “Want me to get a menu?”
    “No.” Monica aimed her blinding smile back at
Max. “I’m sure you’d like to save your appetite for dinner at the
inn. Only one of our dining rooms is open for dinner during the
off-season,