Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“She’s only been working for you for a few hours. Why not sell her on?” I try to approach the matter reasonably. After all, it is pretty common for people to say no as an immediate reflex. If I can get him to think about the situation, things might work out in our favor.
“Because she’s already done more deliveries than anybody else I’ve hired on their first day. She’s a natural.”
“A natural courier,” Rafe snorts.
“Yeah. They exist,” Clint, the manager says. “Takes grit, bravery, and determination to get this job done. Not a lot of people willing to die for a timely delivery these days.”
“We’d rather she didn’t die.”
He grunts and shrugs. “That’s up to her.”
I feel Rafe and Kirin looking at me. They want me to do something. I want me to do something. I just don’t know what. The girl has managed to maneuver herself into a position that’s going to be hard to extract her from. I feel a certain amount of admiration for that tactical choice, but I wish we could just get ahold of her.
We leave the office. Without enacting violence on the guy, there’s not much we can do, and he has the kind of build that suggests to me he’s a damage sponge. We’d have to really hurt him to get what we want, and I’m trying very hard not to be that sort of man anymore.
“Maybe she’s got some friends we can lean on?” Rafe makes the suggestion. It’s a good one.
“How would we find her friends? We can’t find her. We don’t know where she is.”
“Uh. Guys. I hate to say this, but we’re all fucking stupid.” Kirin cuts in with one of his classically diplomatic comments.
“Are we?” Rafe asks the question in the sort of tone that implies someone is going to get hurt.
“I know how we can find her,” Kirin grins. “I don’t know why we didn’t think of this first.”
CHAPTER 9
Darcy
It’s been a long but satisfying day. Turns out I like being a delivery rider. It keeps me moving, and it’s always interesting. Plus, I get to fight for my life every now and then, which means my academy training gets to pay off.
I’ve delivered twelve packages, which is a heap. Clint said the first three hundred deliveries pay off the bike. At this rate, I’ll own it in less than a month. That’s not even that bad. After that, I’ll start getting paid. Might even be able to afford my own place. I can forage for sustenance until then.
I even managed to grab a nap for a bit in the D2G box room. It has those clear plastic panels on the ceiling that let light and warmth in. I slept on top of a flat packet of boxes for what felt like a whole night, though it was only a few hours.
“Darcy?”
“Yeah?”
“Good job today,” Clint says. “Take this.”
I expect it to be a token for the gross vending machines, but when I look at the slip of plastic he’s given me, it’s a coupon for a nearby chain restaurant.
“Wow, really?”
“Best newbie in months,” he says. “You’re a natural. Get some food and we’ll see what else comes up. Deliveries run through the night, and you get double pay after dark.”
“So I could pay the bike off even earlier?”
“Or upgrade,” he says. “There’s a lot of options for a talented rider.”
I’m absolutely beaming. There’s no way for Clint to know this, because we’ve shared absolutely nothing personal with one another, and we have absolutely no intention of doing so, but this is the first praise I’ve had in what feels like forever.
I’ve gotten so used to people telling me I’m doing things wrong, behaving badly, being a problem that I actually forgot someone could say something nice to me and mean it.
I’m good at my new job, and that fills me with a sense of pride I didn’t know I needed so badly.
“Get some food, kid,” he says. “There’s not enough of you.”
“Alright. I’ll be back,” I say, waving the coupon at him. “Thanks for this.”
The restaurant he’s given me a free meal at is called Duckie’s.
Duckie’s has a mascot of, you guessed it, a duck. They mostly serve chicken. I don’t know what the math is on that, and I don’t care. I find myself eating fried chicken with a side of fries and I am about as happy as I have ever been. I kick my feet under the table and do a little shimmy as I reach for my soda.
I’m an independent woman. And it was much easier than I imagined it would be.
I don’t need any man. I don’t need anything. I don’t need any kind of institution to tell me who I am and what I’m for. I can actually work that out for myself. Feels good. Feels absolutely magic.