Broken Piano for President Read Online Free Page B
article in the New York Times ?”
Thirty minutes earlier, the car picked Deshler and the woman up on the sidewalk in front of the Bust-A-Gut dome. The driver didn’t say a word. Now only a few miles into their ride, rush hour cars kiss each other’s bumpers along the freeway.
“The New York F-ing Times ,” she sighs. “See,” a smile forms and it startles Dean. “I told you I’d stop swearing.”
Dean and the woman sit in traffic, studying the billboard that has her so upset. It features a giant crispy lump the size of a refrigerator, sweating grease. It looks like a rumpled paper bag but claims to be a sandwich. There’s a blue and yellow logo at the bottom for Bust-A-Gut Hamburgers. Above this fried fist, it reads: “TRUST YOUR GUT—Catch Monte Cristo Mania!”
“Um, yes, you’re doing a great job,” Deshler says, happy to be off the subject of bloody wounds. “What exactly are we looking at?”
Twisting her neck, focusing on the billboard, the woman says, “Yeah, like you don’t know.” She shoots another smile that must have been hell in dental bills. “I have no clue what Findlay is thinking. Whatever the new hush-hush secret is, supposedly, it’s killer . You know?”
The billboard reminds Dean of the last meal he and his brother enjoyed with their parents so many years ago, the last time he ate Bust-A-Gut. It was a Teriyaki Beef Jerky Burger—the one you were supposed to eat with chopsticks.
The antique idea of hamburgers in Japanese style fades. His soupy stomach splashes unabsorbed beer. His mouth is as hot and dry as the smell coming from the car’s heat vents. Outside, the sun is higher. Exhaust pipes blow steam.
“Come again?” he says. He is dizzy and wishes this woman would have stayed unconscious. Running away from that car with a head full of prison anxieties would be a vacation right about now.
“Clifford Findlay …my boss,” the woman turns and stares. “CEO of Bust-A-Gut, second largest burger joint in this country. Dean, this isn’t funny.”
Findlay …he thinks about work and anyone he might have met there named Mister Findlay. Have I dented this guy’s fenders?
“Deshler,” she coos. “You’re starting to hurt my feelings. Maybe you hit your head, too. Have you considered that? Matching concussions.”
Her sweet voice rumbles his heart to life. That red-hot collection of arteries attempts to mule-kick his ribs. Life, for Deshler Dean, has been one long attempt to push everyone away. But this girl is someone he’d like to reel in.
“This is the part where you say, sorry, Malinta. ”
Dean’s face goes lost. “Weird name.”
“Oh, please. I’ve explained this a million times.” The glassy curve of her cheeks and chin tightens, drawing in a thousand wiry lines. Her eyes are sharp, business eyes.
A million? Deshler wonders if it’s possible to meet anyone a million times. Have I met Malinta a million times? Have we kissed? Have we had sex?
He admires her thin legs and green eyes and realizes the answer is “probably not.” That overworked heart thumps double-time. Even with the open wound, she’s a thousand times prettier than any other woman who has woken up in his bed.
“My name’s Melinda. Malinta is a nickname. My little brother couldn’t pronounce it as a kid. Sound…” she counts to five and takes a breath, “familiar?”
Screws tighten inside Dean’s brain. If you want to get through this, you’ve got to pull it together. You’ve got to be resourceful. Then the answer races down nerve endings like electricity. You’ve got to start lying.
“Oh!” blasts open the silence. “God, yes! Wow, I can’t believe I said that. I’m so hungover. I’m sorry, jeez.”
The tight muscles in Malinta’s face soften and that faint, flirty smile returns. A few bricks of confidence stack within Dean’s chest, realizing he might be onto something with this lying routine.
“I had way too much to drink last night,” he says with sorry
Thirty minutes earlier, the car picked Deshler and the woman up on the sidewalk in front of the Bust-A-Gut dome. The driver didn’t say a word. Now only a few miles into their ride, rush hour cars kiss each other’s bumpers along the freeway.
“The New York F-ing Times ,” she sighs. “See,” a smile forms and it startles Dean. “I told you I’d stop swearing.”
Dean and the woman sit in traffic, studying the billboard that has her so upset. It features a giant crispy lump the size of a refrigerator, sweating grease. It looks like a rumpled paper bag but claims to be a sandwich. There’s a blue and yellow logo at the bottom for Bust-A-Gut Hamburgers. Above this fried fist, it reads: “TRUST YOUR GUT—Catch Monte Cristo Mania!”
“Um, yes, you’re doing a great job,” Deshler says, happy to be off the subject of bloody wounds. “What exactly are we looking at?”
Twisting her neck, focusing on the billboard, the woman says, “Yeah, like you don’t know.” She shoots another smile that must have been hell in dental bills. “I have no clue what Findlay is thinking. Whatever the new hush-hush secret is, supposedly, it’s killer . You know?”
The billboard reminds Dean of the last meal he and his brother enjoyed with their parents so many years ago, the last time he ate Bust-A-Gut. It was a Teriyaki Beef Jerky Burger—the one you were supposed to eat with chopsticks.
The antique idea of hamburgers in Japanese style fades. His soupy stomach splashes unabsorbed beer. His mouth is as hot and dry as the smell coming from the car’s heat vents. Outside, the sun is higher. Exhaust pipes blow steam.
“Come again?” he says. He is dizzy and wishes this woman would have stayed unconscious. Running away from that car with a head full of prison anxieties would be a vacation right about now.
“Clifford Findlay …my boss,” the woman turns and stares. “CEO of Bust-A-Gut, second largest burger joint in this country. Dean, this isn’t funny.”
Findlay …he thinks about work and anyone he might have met there named Mister Findlay. Have I dented this guy’s fenders?
“Deshler,” she coos. “You’re starting to hurt my feelings. Maybe you hit your head, too. Have you considered that? Matching concussions.”
Her sweet voice rumbles his heart to life. That red-hot collection of arteries attempts to mule-kick his ribs. Life, for Deshler Dean, has been one long attempt to push everyone away. But this girl is someone he’d like to reel in.
“This is the part where you say, sorry, Malinta. ”
Dean’s face goes lost. “Weird name.”
“Oh, please. I’ve explained this a million times.” The glassy curve of her cheeks and chin tightens, drawing in a thousand wiry lines. Her eyes are sharp, business eyes.
A million? Deshler wonders if it’s possible to meet anyone a million times. Have I met Malinta a million times? Have we kissed? Have we had sex?
He admires her thin legs and green eyes and realizes the answer is “probably not.” That overworked heart thumps double-time. Even with the open wound, she’s a thousand times prettier than any other woman who has woken up in his bed.
“My name’s Melinda. Malinta is a nickname. My little brother couldn’t pronounce it as a kid. Sound…” she counts to five and takes a breath, “familiar?”
Screws tighten inside Dean’s brain. If you want to get through this, you’ve got to pull it together. You’ve got to be resourceful. Then the answer races down nerve endings like electricity. You’ve got to start lying.
“Oh!” blasts open the silence. “God, yes! Wow, I can’t believe I said that. I’m so hungover. I’m sorry, jeez.”
The tight muscles in Malinta’s face soften and that faint, flirty smile returns. A few bricks of confidence stack within Dean’s chest, realizing he might be onto something with this lying routine.
“I had way too much to drink last night,” he says with sorry