Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I nearly wince at her incredulous use of my last name. I have a meeting in half an hour. It’s Monday, and people aren’t in the mood to be kept waiting for shit they already don’t want to be doing. No one would say that or act like it, but does anyone on this earth enjoy meetings or Mondays? Ever?
Long story short, I don’t have time for this.
“In the flesh,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. I roll it to the side, releasing the buildup of stress responsible for the gross heat I feel back there. But that only serves to transfer it lower, straight into my chest and stomach. If I’m not careful, I’ll have to go back to campfire images.
“Okay.” She stops fiddling with her purse and clasps her hands instead. “How do you scrub the internet like that anyway? Get it to tell no tales? Hide all your personal info and photos? How do you control what other people are posting?” She sucks in a half breath. Her face is suddenly so red that she might be in danger of blacking out. “Right. Money. Tons of money.”
“You need to take a breath,” I advise. I also don’t have time for medical emergencies and ambulances.
She tries, sucking in another half-measured watery gulp like she’s drowning.
“Deeper, please.”
Her lashes part as her eyes got wider.
Right. Instruction with proper words instead of shit that paints obscene images straight into my brain would be great.
“Do I need to turn on meditation instruction? Hold on. I’ll get it going. Just give me one second.”
“No!” She gulps in five huge breaths until she’s likely in danger of hyperventilating. “I’m good. I mean, no, I’m not, but you don’t need to put on a guided meditation. That’s not going to help.”
Her eyes sweep over me far too leisurely, taking in all the details. Again. People don’t appraise me like this. My throat closes up with immediate anxiety. Fuck it, I’m turning on the meditation.
“You don’t look like your son,” she states.
I wheeze out a sputtery breath. The air quality in this office must be questionable. That’s probably it. We’re both affected.
I didn’t need to ask Gerald to sit in on this because there are cameras around my office recording in high definition with sound. There’s nothing in this office that can be done, said, or used against me. I’m much more careful now. Having been burned once and all that.
“It’s more like he doesn’t look like me, I’d say.”
“Erm, right. I might as well get right down to it. You agreed to see me, and while I’m grateful, I’m not going to thank you.”
“I’m glad we have that covered.” I keep my tone light, my hands at my side. Non-threatening.
“I’ve been waiting for your office to open.”
“We keep fairly standard business hours,” I reply.
“In my car.”
“I see.”
“All night,” she adds.
She’s the one who crosses her arms over the ridiculous getup. But my eyes are drawn straight to her breasts all the same. The delicate swell of them is more than outlined in the bright, shiny green Lycra. She looks like the lovechild of a mermaid and a biker. It’s the black ripped tights, the studded leather jacket, and the worn ankle boots that lend credence to the latter.
Fuck.
I quickly tear my gaze back to her face. Thankfully, she doesn’t appear to have noticed that embarrassing instant of terrible judgment. She’s too distraught, chewing on her full lower lip and turning it a bright shade of pink. I flick my eyes up again, straight to hers. Normally, I don’t have an issue with eye contact.
“While I was driving here and sitting in my car for hours, my entire life back home was being systematically dismantled by a group of thugs intent on doing serious bodily injury to me and my family, all thanks to your son. Hence, why I’m here.”
Her hands flex and unflex, and she shakes out her palms twice. I already know this, thanks to Gerald’s briefing, but my throat closes up to the point where I feel like I need to loosen the tie I’m not even wearing.
“I basically had to flee my apartment and phone my parents. They freaked out and went straight to my grandma’s nursing home to pick her up, and now they’re hiding out in their minivan with the family rescue dog and my mom’s hermit crab. Babycakes needs heat to be okay. I think. Anyway, she’s been making skin-to-skin contact with a crab, and she’s worried sick about her pond goldish. They’re fifteen years old, and she couldn’t take them out of the house since you can’t exactly pack a thirty-gallon tank easily into anything.”
Despite the appearance of this being an uptight office, we have a business casual dress code. I probably don’t look like a CEO with jeans, a button-up black dress shirt, and tattoos revealed by the sleeves that I automatically rolled up as soon as I stepped out of the house and realized the blast of humidity that hadn’t let up for the past few days was still sticking around. I grew my hair long in my twenties because my parents abhorred it, and now, I also keep a neatly trimmed beard. I probably look more fit for a biker club than a board meeting, but then again, I’m lacking the leather, the boots, and the bike.