The
Last Day for Rob Rhino
by
Kathleen O'Donnell
Genre:
Psychological Thriller, Mystery
Claire’s
a rich widow on a mission, who partakes with abandon from the
pharmacy stored in her Prada purse. Rob’s an aging,
hygiene-challenged porn star and reality show celebrity.
Stuck
on the same flight, bound for the same eccentric town, she hates him
on sight. She thinks she knows all there is to know about him but is
dying to find out more. He’s disinterested but somehow still sees
right through her. But they’ve both got big problems. Hers is in
the Louis Vuitton carryon in the overhead. His is in his pants.
To
Claire’s dismay, Rob turns up everywhere she goes, yet they form
the unlikeliest of friendships. He cares for her in ways she’s
never known before. He could be the best thing in her life—or the
worst.
In a place full of secrets, including their own, they
help each other find answers they didn’t even know they were
looking for, yet some questions linger. What happened to Rob’s
first wife? What happened to Claire’s husband? Will they live
through the answers?
The Last
Day for Rob Rhino is a dark,
tragic, and funny novel about the bonds of family and friendship. If
you’d love a Gillian Flynn, Paula Hawkins, or Stieg Larsson novel
with a humorous twist, this would be it.
CHAPTER ONE
“I
bought you the hat because you’re scary bald.”
Claire
held the phone away from her ear, nostrils flaring. “I wouldn’t wear a hat if
Philip
Treacy
sailed it over himself on the QE2.” She
strolled the gateway to watch the planes take off
through
the windows. Her reflection in the glass mirrored back, her head shiny,
embryonic.
Her
stepdaughter let out a puff of breath. “Claire, you know how much his hats
cost. It’s
just
lying here on the floor.”
“I
don’t give a flying—” Claire caught herself, counted to five. Annabelle meant
well. “I
don’t
do hats. I do bald. It is what it is.”
“Listen,
why don’t you take a vacation?” The wheedling commenced. “Instead of going
wherever,
to do whatever, you could go to that place I told you about in Hawaii.”
Annabelle spoke
in
run-ons. “They have a state-of-the-art meditation center.”
A
woman wearing sweats gawked going by, smiling, nodding. Claire’s condition
elicited
the
sympathy of strangers. Maybe it was terminal. Whatever it was it looked bad.
“That
place where I can sit around all day touching myself?”
“You
can get in touch with yourself,
Claire.”
“I’m
halfway to Pennsylvania where I want to go.” Claire’s free hand pushed against
the
window.
“Me and my bald head.” Airport foot traffic hurried behind her in both
directions.
“Well,
you look like crap. Please reconsider Hawaii. It’s a luxurious place, the—”
“The
ashram?”
“It’s
not an ashram. It’s a—”
“Loony
bin?” A harried traveler knocked her purse sitting by her feet. The pill
bottles at
the
bottom rolled and shook, cha, cha, cha, a druggist’s maraca.
“It’s
a retreat center. Andrew sent Meg there for her birthday. He said she loved
it.”
“Um-hum.”
“Are
you listening?”
Claire
suffered in silence as loud as she could.
Annabelle
tried a different way. “I’m worried about you. Jordan is too. Dad—”
Claire’s
sudden tears annoyed her. She stabbed her phone off with one rigid finger,
rammed
it
into her purse. Enough of that nonsense. You can cry yourself a river, but you
can’t cry your hair
back,
or your life the way you wanted it.
****
Claire
stared at the homeless looking guy sleeping on the airport floor and brushed
the tears
from
her lashless eyes.
She
looked around. There were serious looking men in expensive suits waiting for
their
flights.
Most poking at their iPhones. Liam used to think every man who crossed her path
wanted
to
sleep with her. Now if they saw her at all she repulsed them. Claire had been a
beauty until she
wasn’t. An emerald-eyed,
fair-haired princess, her dad used to say. A long,
tall, drink of water.
Before
she’d been stared at, smiled on, envied. Now she was just stared at. Sometimes
laughed or
pointed
at and almost always pitied.
The
wreck on the floor moved. Propped up on his scaly elbows, nodding off, his
mouth
open,
eyes closed. Even in his unwashed state he looked familiar. Like someone who
used to be
famous.
Claire scanned the crowded O’Hare terminal but didn’t notice anyone else
looking at him.
Maybe
she was wrong. Maybe he was just another loser. She looked at her Rolex and
wondered
how
late the flight was going to be. She couldn’t remember now what the voice said
on the
announcement.
Between the noise and the sedatives it was hard to keep up.
When
she walked back to her gate the boarding had already started. She hadn’t heard
the
announcement.
Again. The man lying on the ground was gone. Maybe security’d shooed him
away.
She noted her seat number and got in line. Sweat broke out over her upper lip.
Sweating
was
a problem with no hair. An added humiliation. She hoped they didn’t dilly-dally
too long with
the
drinks on the plane. Thank God for the three-hour jump in time going east.
She
boarded then hunted for her seat—8B. She really needed to get some glasses. The
plane
was a small commuter with three seats across, a single on one side of the
aisle, a double on
the
other. Claire found aisle 8 and was about to sit in her seat, one of the
doubles, on the aisle,
when
she saw him.
The
dirty hobo from the airport slumped in the window seat, 8C. Right next to her.
He
sprawled out over both seats, looking fatter up close, and older, late sixties
at least,
despite
the desperate dye job and combover. A bushy moustache like a squirrel’s ass
wasn’t big
enough
to cover his pock-marked face. His gut hung over his thighs. He looked either
asleep or
passed
out. He reeked.
“This
is a mistake.” Claire stopped, twisted around in search of a flight attendant.
She
couldn’t
see one. The teeming line of travelers behind her tried to keep her going.
“This can’t be
right.
I can’t possibly sit here,” she said like an Astor in steerage on the Titanic.
The
Asian man behind her smiled, moved his head up and down.
She
was about to indulge in a hurricane force panic attack when she heard, “This is
a full
flight.
Please find your seats. Make sure your carry-ons are stored below your seat or
in the upper
bins.”
Claire
swung her Louis Vuitton bag into her seat hitting the filthy hobo’s fat leg
hard. He
jiggled
up with a snort and scooted over to his side. She heaved her matching carry-on
into the
overhead
bin, sat down, dug a little blue pill out of her bag then swallowed it dry. She
made a big
show
of settling into her seat so she could turn her head to see what he was doing
without seeming
obvious.
He leaned against the window, eyes closed, mouth open. She could hear him
snoring.
Claire
stuffed her bag under the seat in front of her then fastened her seat belt with
a click.
When
he opened his milky blue-gray eyes he looked at her with eyelids that appeared
too heavy
for
him. All of a sudden he had the hearing of a dog. One side of his mouth lifted
in a lopsided half
smile.
He leaned forward to make sure his ragged backpack was still there, fiddled
with the seatback
pocket,
readjusted his seatbelt. Satisfied that all was as it should be in his area, he
gave Claire
another
look, one that seemed to urge her to give hers another check just to be safe.
She did. In
seconds
he slept again.
It
occurred to Claire her unwanted traveling companion hadn’t noticed he sat next
to a
hairless
woman. He didn’t look her up and down and then quickly look away like most
people.
Nor
did he insist on politically correct earnestness, meaningful, direct eye
contact. Her grubby
neighbor
seemed to care only that seat trays were upright, all electronic devices were
turned off,
and
appropriately stored until takeoff. Claire shook her bald head. Whatever drugs
he was taking
she
had to get some.
The
plane was almost full. Claire looked up to see a man about her age. One of the
impatient
ones
in a pricey suit in the aisle next to her seat. Staring. Oh
no. She
could feel the color begin to
climb
up her neck.
“Hey,
aren’t you that guy?” the man in the suit said.
Claire
exhaled. She turned to her right, startled.
“Yeah,
you’re the guy from that reality show, aren’t you?” The suit wasn’t budging
without
an
answer.
“Uh-huh...
yeah, I’m him.” Claire’s seatmate slurred, barely stringing the words together.
His
double chins fell forward on his chest.
“Rob,”
the suit said.
“Yeah,
Rob.”
The
flight attendant came up behind the man prodding him forward. “I knew it,” he
muttered
before moving toward his seat.
That’s
where she’d seen him. What’d he say his name was again? She turned toward him.
Asleep
again. “Hey,” she elbowed him. “I thought you looked familiar. You were in a
reality show.
What
else would I have seen you in?” She hardly ever watched reality television—at
least not on
purpose.
He
eyed her Rolex and ten-carat diamond ring. “Nothing.”
“I
thought you were someone famous when I saw you in the airport.” She knew she
was
right.
She almost always was. “What else are you famous for?”
His
head swiveled toward her, jowls sagging.
“My
cock,” he said. “I have a thirteen-inch cock.”
Kathleen
O’Donnell is a wife, mom, grandmother and a recovering blogger.
She currently lives in Nevada with her husband. She is a two time
Book of the Year finalist for her debut novel The Last Day for Rob
Rhino. You can find short stories and blog posts on her website.
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the tour HERE
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