Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Because I’ve stopped slamming my fists against the metal door, I hear the thunder coming from inside. I feel it too. The concrete under my feet shivers. What the fuck? Right now would be a seriously bad time for an earthquake, but bad things usually happen in threes.
More like threes of threes of threes.
The door gets ripped open so forcefully that I feel for its hinges. My brain computes the fact that the shaking I just felt was this man’s footsteps as he walked to the door. Is that even possible?
Maybe here. As far as this place goes, I’d call it a solid dive, which begs the question… This guy is rich. Blow your mind rich. I looked up his net worth. So why is he here instead of a five-star hotel? I’m not sure why he uses different names like he’s two different people, but he said he owns the place, so it has to be him.
One name for the office.
One name for the field.
There was no photo of him anywhere, and just a brief personal bio. The whole thing focused far more on the company itself and all its services. I scoured the internet, and I mean scrubbed down emphatically and metaphorically, for more information using either of his names, but I came up with nothing. It’s like he’s wiped it all clean.
Big surprise.
I’m so upset that the mythical creature in my vision wearing grey sweatpants slung low on muscular hips, carved abs in all their glorious glory, hard pecs and shoulder muscles bulging and comprising the top of a beastly triangle that probably spans at least thirty-six inches from arm to arm, barely affects me.
Hardly.
Okay, I get a few small—or not-so-small—twinges in places I ignore.
So what if he’s ripped? Plenty of guys are. It doesn’t matter. This one’s an asshole, and it kind of ruins the whole sinisterly mouthwatering vibe. He didn’t just step into my life. He stepped all over it. The way he’s ruining it is still trickling down, and he’s going to fix it or pay, and I don’t mean pay as in I slip something into his drink that gives him one too many burritos explosive diarrhea.
I shove my phone in the jerkwad’s face. So what if I have to reach way, way up to get it there? He stares, nonplussed, at the black screen. Right, he isn’t going to get much info from that. His dark eyes trace my face next, his pupils doing their laser best to try and figure out what my deal is. He’s so implacable that I doubt he’s ever had a single emotion in his life.
Training.
I know it’s training, but even long before he was an adult with an adult job, he was probably the perfect candidate to do things like…uh…like special ops people do. What that entails exactly, I have no idea.
I’m sure it was what I read in the comment, and I’m sure it was bad. Once I read it, I couldn’t unsee it.
He’s going to stand there like a wall of ice until I tell him what my problem is. He’s not going to ask. I’ve never met someone so cold, callous, and infuriating.
“I’ve been getting emails all night from the show organizers. They all know each other and communicate with each other. They have to. There’s no way they’d all just trickle on down, one after another, unless it was communicated and then a unanimous decision made. They said they’re not sure they can handle, and I quote, ‘this high of a security risk for the show circuit right now.’”
I get more stares. Not even so much as a crease in the forehead, a twinge in the facial muscles, a twitch of the lips, or a tremor of an eyelid.
“I’ve basically been blacklisted!” I screech. It’s four in the morning, and I’m sorry, but any respect I have for anyone else’s sleep is nonexistent at the moment. I’m at the height of panic here. “All the shows that are coming up. The rest, in the far-off future, are undetermined, but I can only imagine they’re just biding their time until they email me too.”
Still nothing.
It makes me want to reproduce the door pounding but on this guy’s chest.
Though that would involve touching him.
Which is a solid no.
It’s only the heat of anger blazing through me.
His eyes scan the area behind me, taking in the perimeter for threats. I bet he answered the door only after checking the peephole or whatever hidden camera he installed here because he’s freaky like that.
“You had better come in.”
Like I’m falling for that trap.
But I’m about to start crying again. I’m barely holding it together. This is my everything that’s at risk. I came here because I was desperate for one thing and one thing only. That this man, who shot it all to shit times a thousand, should fix it.