In the shadowy area of the pool and East Garden I gawked at tears in the corners of his eyes, his rugged jaw line, and solid chin. I wanted to pat him on the back for no reason. Maybe because I realized he was a child and nothing more. Maybe because I felt pity for him because he was a total fuck-up. Instead, I said, “Katz, I’ll give you two days with Tacoma. No more, though. Two days. You fuck this up and you’re out of here in a snap. Two days. Do you understand me?”
He didn’t smile or thank me, merely whispered, “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.” And then he backed away, keeping his gaze on me until he vanished from the pool and my side, returning to the pool boy—wherever he was—and the house.
Two days.
Forty-eight hours.
What could go wrong, right?
Everything.39: Wicked