"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Sweet Young Things" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

time she blinked. She made sure all her denim shirts were one size too small. She tied
them at the waist, left them unbuttoned, and wore a bustier beneath them instead of a
bra. Her stone-washed jeans, all of them ripped at the knees, were too tight. Every
day, she matched the color of her high heels to the color of her bustier, and she’d
disappear into the shop, determined to impress no one.
The first week, not a single customer pushed open the grimy glass door. She
spent her days watching the black-and-white 12-inch television the greasy-haired
former employee had left her.
The second week, she had a couple of customers, and they were elderly, just
as she expected, looking to sell rather than buy. She gave the old man a fair price for
his 1950s Timex and lied to him when he tried to sell her his grandfather’s pocket
watch, telling him she had too many pocket watches right now.
The elderly lady’s eyes teared up when she tried to pawn a gold broach that
looked like a peacock’s tail. It only took a little prodding to get her to admit that her
husband had given it to her on their twentieth anniversary oh so long ago.
Fala pushed the broach back across the countertop, but paid nearly two
hundred dollars for the Bakelite bangle bracelets the old lady wore on her right arm.
The bracelets weren’t even worth one-tenth that.
The old woman had clutched the broach to her heart as she left, eyes still filled
with unshed tears.
Damn Preston or whatever the hell he was calling himself these days. Damn
him forever for bringing her here, and forcing her to make choices she never would
have considered ten years before.
****
Ten years before, she’d been twenty-five, newly divorced, and naive as hell.
She’d been pretty, too, in a wholesome all-American-girl way, with her rounded
cheeks and bright blue eyes and not-quite-blond hair. Anyone looking at her had to
trust her, because she wore every emotion she’d ever had all over her unlined face.
Preston had been five years into his business then, and thinking of making a
change. Only she hadn’t known that. All she’d known was two things: He’d hired
her despite her lack of experience, and he was the most dynamic man she’d ever
met.
Dynamic: that was a word she hadn’t understood until Preston. He wasn’t
conventionally handsome—his nose was too wide, his eyes too small—and he
wasn’t very tall. But he had a beautiful head of shiny black hair, so thick every
woman longed to run her hands through it. His mouth was generous, and his smile
was endearingly crooked—just as he turned out to be.
She’d been lonely, she’d been hurt, and she’d been broke, all three of which
made her the perfect shill for H.T. Corrent Investments, the company that Preston
supposedly owned.
He’d been brilliant, even then. He’d rented office space in a brand-new
building, bought furniture at a tax liquidation, and set up all three rooms as if he’d
just moved in. Boxes sat in the corners, all of them labeled with a date and a letter of
the alphabet, all of them taped shut so thoroughly that only a lot of work with a knife
or a straight razor would get them open.
Dusty filing cabinets filled the smallest room, along with an early ‘eighties
microwave and a half-sized refrigerator. Preston’s office had the large desk and an
oversize leather chair, along with some photos which, Fala later learned, he’d bought
at an estate sale.
Out front, a middle-aged woman sat behind a smaller desk, working the