Poseur #2: The Good, the Fab and the Ugly by Rachel Maude Read Free Book Online

yes?”
    Before he could respond, she hung up.
    Sweeping the crumb-ridden remnants of her morning Lemonburst muffin into the wire-mesh trashcan under her desk, she flicked an automatic glance to the dark gray computer screen, examined her warped reflection, and sighed. “Come in!”
    What she wouldn’t have given to go back in time, examine her face in a real mirror, check her teeth for poppy seeds . . . maybe apply a little Strawberry Lip Smackers. Because, contrary to her expectations, the door had opened not to reveal Glen Morrison — who would need to discuss upcoming HalloWinston Carnival logistics — but the most devastatingly attractive man she had ever seen. A slick blue-and-pearl-white Adidas tracksuit clung enticingly to his compact frame, and a glittering collection of gold chains drew attention to his gleamingly muscular chest. At her somewhat dazed nod, he glided into her office, walking in this way that was powerful, yet wounded — like a jungle cat with a slight limp.
    “I’m Christopher Duane Moon,” he oozed in a voice like warm molasses, extending his strong brown hand. He flashed a blinding mega-watts smile. “Melissa Moon’s dad?”
    She clasped his palm, and shook (all the way to the base of her spine).
This
was Melissa’s father? But he looked so young! Even if he was, say . . . thirty-three, a good five years older than she was, he was
still
young for a parent, especially a
Winston
parent. When Melissa was born he must have been, what . . . seventeen?
    “I’m Lena,” she introduced herself, putting an end to her manic calculations.
    “I was wondering if we could talk,” Christopher continued. “Is this a good time?”
    “Oh yes!” She exhaled and nodded, inviting him to sit. He plopped on her green velveteen couch, sinking deep into the needle-point squirrel cushions, his knees expanded at a distractingly obtuse angle.
    “It’s about my daughter,” he began. “I’ve been a little concerned.”
    “We adore Melissa.” Miss Paletsky clasped her hands so they sat like a peeled potato in her lap. “She is one our most . . .
energetic
students.”
    “Yeah, but she is
obsessed
with finding out who vandalized this contest of hers. . . .” He ran his ruby-bejeweled, and (she couldn’t help but notice) wedding ring–free hand around his perfectly shaved head. “I try to be a good father, Lena. A provider. Someone who sets things up for their kids, you know — so they can have access to a future they deserve.”
    Miss Paletsky fiddled with the oversized blue plastic beads at her flushed neck. Never had she been so moved by a parent’s concern. He was so invested. So sincere.
    And he’d
so
just said her name!
    “But ever since this contest,” he observed, innocent to the effect he had on his trembling listener, “my daughter’s been looking
backward
not forward. I know it’s hypocritical, but . . . I just don’t think it’s healthy.”
    “How is that hypocritical?”
    “Well, you know,” he replied with a knowing chuckle. He leaned back into the pliant velveteen cushions, cradling his head in the hammock of his hands. “I kind of built my whole career on looking backward, right? Grudges, history, revenge — those are the building blocks of my business.”
    “I . . . I’m sorry.” Miss Paletsky shook her head. As far as she could tell, he was either a history professor, a bounty hunter, or a Winston eighth grade girl. “What is it that you do, exactly?”
    “For real?” Seedy sat to attention, and broadly grinned. “Christopher Duane, aka Seedy Moon?” He awaited recognition, but she responded with only a blank, befuddled look. “Lord of the Blings,” he persisted. “The
Kimchi Killa?
Oh
man,
” he flopped back against the cushions. “Don’t you listen to hip-hop?”
    Miss Paletsky shook her head. “No,” she admitted. “My music tastes are more, well . . . classical.”
    “Oh yeah?” He brightened in an unexpected show of interest. “You don’t