Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
There’s a small adjustment of his tie on a muttered declaration, “We’re still not as bad as San Francisco.”
“They haven’t had a bad press report—public or in house—in eight years.”
“That seems inaccurate.”
“It isn’t.”
“How do you know”
“Because that’s when and where I truly started making a name for myself ten years ago, Mr. Draak.”
The sight of his eyebrows launching upward in surprise pushes me to keep going.
“I know the ins and outs of this company. I have personally done everything from recruitment to replacement to relations between corporate and the bottom feeders they think no one would ever listen to. I have prevented lawsuits, blackmail, corporate espionage, and embezzlement. I know people. I know what they can do. I know what they’re capable of doing. And I know how to create a system that controls the narrative people receive as much as the people presenting it. DL & Co. is not like most companies—and not just because of all the magic shit that evidently exists. It is a rare gem in the way it simultaneously treasures the individual employee, the company, and the consumer yet somehow still manages to create a sense of unity that is craved. It’s quite remarkable, which is one reason I have turned down every offer I’ve ever had to go elsewhere.”
An unexpected hint of hurt flashes in stare. “You’ve had other offers?”
“Of course, I have.”
“How many?”
“Hundreds.”
“How often?”
“Weekly.”
“Mother of Dragons, weekly?!”
“Yes, I’m quite amazing at what I do.”
His light chortle sparks my own. “Humbleness is not a requirement I see.”
“It isn’t,” I casually brush off with a crooked smirk. “And me feigning it, isn’t going to solve the issues at the Dreki location. Your branch does have some major problems; however, I’ve examined the files from over the past few years, and the sudden influx isn’t an accurate depiction of how you’ve been operating. Something or someone is purposely sabotaging you and part of my job—the thing I will be doing when I’m not looking after my wrongfully captured mother who just vanished from my life as a child—will be to not only figure out the who or whoms but the why.”
Ptur offers me the most compassionate grin I’ve ever seen on a whispered, “Thank you, Cameron.”
Overwhelming emotions I can’t quite explain have me quietly cooing back the unfathomable. “Of course, hfal.”
Wait.
Did I just speak the language my mother was speaking?!
How?!
What did I say?!
What does that word mean?!
Half.
Half?
Half of what?!
The faintest red color tints his scruff covered cheeks at the same time he shoves the key into the ignition, amusement bright as day. “I’ll admit. I like hearing that more than beanstalk.”
Parting my lips to inquire about what it is I exactly said is stopped abruptly short after Ptur glances into his review mirror.
“Pint-Size,” the man—or at least part man—states slowly, barely moving his mouth, “you’re going to do exactly what I say next without hesitation. Tuck your hair behind your ear in acknowledgement.”
I do.
“As soon as I get out of the vehicle, you’re going to lock the doors, crawl into the backseat over the console, and secure yourself along with the prisoner.”
“My. Mother.”
“Same. Shit.” The dangling objects are craftily inched out of the ignition while his other hand adjusts on the steering wheel like he’s preparing to back out. “Hide the keys.”
“Why?”
“It’s harder to drive off without them.”
Ptur doesn’t say anything else.
He opens his door with his left claw and begins to exit.
Wait…
Claw?!
Why does he have a fucking claw?
When did he get a claw?
Is that actually a claw?
The other logical questions that are soaring around my mind are swiftly ceased by the internal voice I miss being quiet.
Move.
Grabbing the keys is followed speedily by me attempting to crawl between the seats—like instructed—against my better judgment.
Physics wasn’t exactly a subject I excelled in, but I did well enough to know you can’t fit the round object—me—through the tiny square peg opening.
At least not without excessive force and an impressive yoga instructor.
Huh.
I used to think he had an angelic glow to him after sex.
I wonder if maybe he was an angel.
Shit, are angels a real thing, too?!
Move!
Twisting and turning and inching to rush to the next row causes the vehicle to continuously rock yet from the clamoring noises outside I think it’s safe to assume no one notices. My first burst of success occurs when I manage to latch onto the headrest supplying me the anchorage needed to propel the remaining portion of myself forward. The aggressive yanking unfortunately has me practically dry humping my unconscious mother’s leg and swearing like the lumberjack she is—or was—about how stupid this plan is.
How unnecessary.
How fucking ridiculous when I could’ve just gotten out and slipped around to the back.
Why couldn’t I?
Why did I have to do this shit?
What could’ve possibly happened to me in the five seconds it would’ve taken me to walk from the front seat to the back?