Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Finally, three bulbs down, I come to the end of the hall. There is an open door and an interior of a room that is lit. The carpet is orangey-brown. The furniture is browny-red. And sitting on top of it are a set of machines that truly do not belong to this decade. Maybe not this century.
A very old typewriter is spitting out what seems to be a never-ending set of numbers on a stream of paper which has perforated seams rather than separate sheets. It has holes along each side, on more perforated seams that also look as though they could be removed. There’s a stack of printed material on the floor, and the new data, whatever it is, gently lays itself over the old in a slow concertina dance. I find myself mesmerized by it.
“What are you doing here?”
The question comes from behind me in a soft growl.
I let out a squeak of surprise and turn around to find myself faced with an absolute hulking brute of a man standing at well over six feet. He practically fills the doorway with his bulk, which means I have no hope of escape. He is wearing thick rimmed black glasses, and his hair is jet black, swept to the side over his forehead. He has a thick beard and a very displeased expression on a face of such ferocity that I feel a stab of fear. He is wearing business attire—a white shirt that pulls tight over pecs and biceps, and pants that also seem a little too tight. His clothes fit him like he spends his life in a gym, though I am guessing this guy has never set foot in a gym. He looks like he could be Cain’s brother, if not twin.
“I’m… I’m…” I’ve forgotten my name, and I don’t think that matters, because my name is not what is going to save me now. “I’m Cain Lupin’s assistant. He told me to get a computer, and then Branson said the only way to do that is to come down here, so I did…”
The ferocious beast relaxes. A hint of a smile appears. “Branson’s still messing with new hires,” he observes.
“I guess,” I say, letting out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding. “I was told to look for Mr. Floyd.”
“I’m Abel Lupin,” he says. “Mr. Floyd is a nickname that Branson should not be using.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be inappropriate.”
This guy is hot, but he’s not having the same effect on me as Cain, thank God. I can’t imagine how it would be to work in a place surrounded by big, buff men who make me ovulate on sight.
“I need a computer.”
Abel gives a brief eyeroll and shakes his head. “Branson could have requisitioned one from the stock upstairs.”
“So Branson is messing with me. Why would he do that?”
“Branson is a little shit, but he’s family, of sorts. So he thinks he can take liberties he has no right to take. Try not to take too much of his advice.”
I take Abel’s advice and go back upstairs.
“Where is my assistant!?”
I hear Cain thunder the question as I step out of the elevator. Branson sent me on a wild goose chase to ensure that I wouldn’t get a computer, thus failing to follow Cain’s orders on that front, and making certain I’d also be impossible to find.
“I don’t know, sir,” I hear Branson say. “They’re just all so flaky these days. Can I help you?”
“Yes. Find the girl.”
I bristle at overhearing myself referred to as the girl.
“I’m here,” I say, as pleasantly as I can.
“In my office,” Cain growls, pointing a long finger toward his door. “Now.”
Back in the room with him, I feel my body respond in that strange way. I’m suddenly so incredibly aroused. I always wondered what the hell other women were talking about when they said a guy could make them wet. I never met anybody who had that effect on me before. It’s exciting and terrifying. I do not want him to know.
“I expect you to be available to work for me, not wandering off and looking at shiny things,” he growls.
I am torn between telling him what actually happened and feeling like a snitch if I do. I decide not to say anything. Branson set me up well enough that I’m sure if I blamed this on him, there would be some way for him to make it even worse for me.
“I’m very sorry, sir. I was trying to find a computer.”
He grunts.
Looks me up and down.
Really looks at me.
“Is… is there something wrong?”
“What’s your name? Your full name.”
“Kira Smith,” I say.
“Smith?”
I nod.
He frowns slightly, as if that’s an unacceptable answer. “Where are you from?”
I don’t want to answer that question.
“The city,” I say. It’s vague, but also he has no right to ask me questions like that, especially not in that kind of tone. I feel as though I’ve done something wrong, not just today, but in general.