Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 980(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 980(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
“Oh, and get her Churches Fried Chicken on your way over if they’re open. The crazy spicy ones. I can’t handle that shit, but she loves it. It’s a treat though, so don’t let her talk you into getting it for her more than just today if I’m not back in the morning. And make sure she cleans up after herself. She’ll leave a trail of destruction everywhere if you don’t keep on top of her. Oh, and no more Lucky Charms for her either.” I pull into my reserved parking spot and turn the ignition off.
George laughs into the receiver before acknowledging, “Jesus, she’s worse than a damn Gremlin, man. No food or water after midnight or she’ll go from Magpie to monster. It’s a lot of responsibility taking care of one little princess, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He’s busting my chops. “Oh, and don’t call her princess, she hates that for some reason. And one more thing, if I’m not back in the morning, she has an appointment at the salon at eleven. She wants to get this unicorn color in her hair. Take her if she still wants to go without me. But make sure the stylist knows, do not trim off more than half an inch and if they fuck up her hair, I will not be happy. And explain to them what my not being happy could mean.”
I’m stepping up into the Learjet as the captain nods at me. Sarah, my assistant and flight attendant is there waiting, offering me a cup of steaming hot Earl Grey as I pass and make my way to my seat.
“Got it.” George answers. “Okay, get to work. Get your shit done because fucking beauty salons scare the crap out of me. Chicks get their hair screwed up, they fucking cry man. I can’t handle crying. Especially if it’s Ginger and I know the stylist is going to have to deal with you. Then she’s going to cry. Fuck it, just be home in the morning, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.”
With that we sign off and I settle into my oversize seat and open up my briefcase on the flat desk top in front of me.
Sarah folds her arms over her chest. “You ready to go?” She is more like a motherly sister than an assistant, to be perfectly honest. I trust her with everything. She’s the only person in my life I let in even a bit and she’s never broken that trust. “Because we’ve all been waiting, you know. You’re an hour and a half late. I was about to send out a search party, it’s not like you to be late and it’s beginning to be a habit the last month. Got your man business running the show these days instead of your brain.” She reaches over and pokes a finger at my forehead.
“Aaaaand I’m waiting on you guys now.” I grit out, knowing she’s right but not willing to open the discussion about my newly found personal life.
“How was your extra bowl of grouchy flakes this morning?” Sarah snaps. “Runway is clear for us. Wheels up in five, your highness. Oh, and here’s your envelope.”
She hands me the plain manila envelope and spins on her heel, barking orders toward the open door of the cockpit. She’s my personal pit bull and outside of George and now my Babybear, one of the few people I know has my back in this world.
I unclasp the metal holding the flap closed and slip the contents out onto the desk in front of me, before starting to analyze the additional information on my current client, along with double checking every detail of the package I’ve put together for him.
I fish my phone out of the inner pocket of my suit coat with one hand while holding up the top page and re-reading the details of the job.
With my thumb, I unlock the phone and set it down, ready to send a quick text to Ginger before we take off and I go full on into my work persona.
In my line of work, I need to concentrate and watch my every thought and movement. And when I’ve got that game face on, I’m not always the me I like to be for her.
As I type out the text, a stab of guilt hits me in the heart. She doesn’t know what I do for a living and if I have any power over it she never will.
Over the two months we’ve been together, she’s asked questions of course—about me, at first, but then about what I do. And I can’t blame her for being curious. I have a beautiful home. I have expensive things. She had to wonder why I would disappear for days at a time, I get that.
Unfortunately, I could give her very little. The less she knows, the safer she is, and that’s my number one priority. Eventually, when I’d worn her down with refusals to discuss that part of my life, she only asked me to promise her three things.