Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
But I don’t know where Gareth is and I’m not allowed to go looking.
As I’m trying to figure out why Gareth, who typically only works with extremely rich clients, would take a meeting in a bar like this one, my phone starts buzzing. I snatch it, praying that it’s Gareth telling me to meet him somewhere nicer—or anywhere at all honestly, because I’m sick of getting the stink-eye from the bartender—but instead, it’s my landlord.
My stomach drops to my feet as I answer. “Hello?” I say, putting on my best chipper-sounding customer service voice.
Eduardo sounds harried. “Fiona? Fiona Kelleher?”
“Yes, hi, Eduardo, how are you? I’m out of town right now, but if my check didn’t clear, I’m sure—”
“No, sorry, this isn’t about rent. Wait, hold on, your check might not clear?” He grunts before I can give him the whole sad story about my paycheck being late, blah blah blah, when really, I just overspent on a new couch. Ah, simple luxuries. “Never mind, listen, this is important. There’s a problem at the building. I’m on my way over to check it out right now.”
“Problem?” I ask, confusion settling over me. “What do you mean?”
“I’m calling all the tenants to make sure they’re okay. There’s, ah, there’s a fire.”
“Fire.” I blink rapidly. The guy at my elbow frowns over like he thinks I might be talking about this death-trap. If there was a fire in this bar, the literal air would go up in flames from all the cheap alcohol floating around. “What do you mean, there’s a fire, Eduardo?”
“I’m nearly there. I’m sure it’s fine, no need to worry, but I heard—” He sucks in a sudden, harsh breath. “Holy fucking shit,” he yells.
“Eduardo? Are you okay?”
“Holy fuck! Oh my god! It’s an inferno! Dear god, oh, the madness! I’m sorry, Fiona, I have to go. It’s bad! It’s way worse than I thought. Oh my god, the entire place is burning. Oh my god!”
“Eduardo!”
Click. The line goes dead.
I sit there in stunned silence, staring down at the quiet phone.
Fire.
At my apartment building.
With all the people. The families. The old ladies. The stinking kids.
I shove back from the bar and stand, gathering all my stuff. Panic shoots through me in waves. Gareth’s not here to pay my bill so I put as much cash down as I can, hoping it’s enough.
My head’s spinning in a rush. I have to get home right now. I have to fly back, find out what happened, see if I can help anyone—and maybe see if there’s anything worth salvaging from my miserable life.
Everything I owned was in that apartment.
Everything except for what I have on me.
Which isn’t all that much. I was told to pack for three days.
My god. I have three days of clothes left.
Everything else—
“Shit,” I whisper, leaning one hand against the bar, trying to gather myself.
“Hey, uh, you okay?” The guy with the backwards hat on my left frowns at me. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine,” I bark at him, feeling bad about it, but I don’t need some Good Samaritan getting involved right now.
I need Gareth. I need a flight home. I scroll through the airline’s website and find a plane leaving in an hour back to Dallas. If I get on that, I can make it with enough time to hurry over to the apartment, and then maybe I can find some way to salvage the wreck of my life, maybe I can help if anyone needs help, maybe—
But shit. Gareth told me not to leave. He told me not to find him.
That was pre-fire though. That was before my life started literally going up in flames. This is a serious emergency. I get his clients are private, but my apartment is literally burning to the ground right now, I can’t just sit here and wait for him to come release me.
I either leave on my own and lose my job, which means financial ruin.
Or I go find him and lose my job.
Also, financial ruin.
But at least if I find him, I can explain. Once he hears why I hunted him down, and why I’m running off, everything will be forgiven.
Right? Totally makes sense?
I sling my bag over my shoulder, puff up my chest, and march toward the back hall, hoping I can track down my asshole boss with enough time to make a mad dash back to the airport.
Chapter 3
Gareth
I accept the cigar from Orin Crowley, clip the end, and light it with my own torch. “Very nice,” I say, nodding with satisfaction as I take a deep puff. “Cuban?”
“Of course,” Orin says, grinning. He sips a whiskey, ice clinking in the glass. The room is dim and smoky, dominated by a large table and surrounded by storage shelves. We’re deep in a back room, hidden behind racks of dry goods. The door is lost in shadows somewhere behind me. Orin dominates the space, though his four sons take up plenty of room on their own. I’m at the far end, closest to the door. “You know, Cubans aren’t even all that much better these days.”