Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87526 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87526 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Will you be bringing a friend?”
So much for thinking I’d be able to avoid this conversation. I look around only to realize I’ve made it to work without even remembering pulling out of the parking garage at my apartment complex. Well, that’s not scary at all.
She isn’t asking if Flynn or Brooks will be coming. She isn’t hinting that the stud with the amazing accent should visit again—her phrasing not mine. I’d never refer to Ignacio Torres as a stud, mainly because I don’t need his ego growing any bigger than it already is.
“I’ll see if Finn is available.” My smile is so wide, my face hurts as I wait for her response.
“Absolutely not. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, no warlocks in my house.”
“He’s not a warlock,” I argue. “He’s a redhead.”
“A warlock,” she repeats.
God love this woman. She’s never had a problem with racism. Never batted an eye at non-heteronormative relationships. But redheads? They’re all the devil, evil incarnate, and only put on earth to take a person’s soul.
“So, I’ll be coming alone then.”
She sighs, and I know if I were standing in front of her, she’d be glaring in my direction for even mentioning my Irish colleague who also happens to have been born with red hair.
“When I asked about a friend, I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, so sorry, Nana. I just got to work, and I have to go. Love you. Give Princess kisses for me.”
I hang up the phone before she can argue further. Explaining to my grandmother how hard dating is never goes very far. She can only focus on the fact that I’m twenty-six and still single, the equivalent of a death sentence as far as she’s concerned. At least I got off the phone before she suggested the granddaughter or grandson of one of her Parcheesi friends. I’ve been in those situations and let’s just say each time was more awkward than the story of how I lost my virginity six short years ago.
“She needs—”
“Don’t start,” I warn Puff Daddy.
“They have excellent facilities—”
“Puff!”
He cackles as I reach for the strap on his soft carrier.
Even at eighty-four, my grandmother is spry and capable of taking care of herself, but every time I talk to her in front of my African Grey parrot, he suggests I put her in a nursing home. The bird has jokes for days.
The elevator ride up to the ninth floor is over before I know it, and Pam gives me a small wave from the reception desk as she continues her phone conversation. When I first started with Blackbridge Security, Deacon was still working on building his clientele and advertising for various PI services. In the last couple of years, however, the company has shifted to more prestigious jobs for some very rich and important people, and we work mostly on a referral basis only.
Despite the inability for people to find us online unless they have our direct URL, we stay busy. So much so, that more often than not, we have to turn people away, offering them information on other companies that are well versed with helping with the smaller jobs. BBS may have started with small-time investigations for cheating spouses and security details, but we’ve branched out and are more prone to work domestic abductions and terrorism.
As always, there are a couple of the guys hanging out in the breakroom when I walk in. We don’t really have set hours, but some of these guys never seem to go home. It’s not unusual for me to spend several nights a week locked in my office. Of course my time not working in there is spent playing online games and getting lost in online rabbit holes rather than sleeping.
I wave to Ignacio, Gaige, and Brooks on the way to my office. Thankfully, the boss man isn’t around. I get along fine with the guy, but he’s been a surly bastard for the last month, and it’s best to keep my distance.
“Women problems,” I mutter as I throw open the door. “Glad I don’t have to deal with that shit.”
“Loser,” Puff snaps, never wasting the opportunity to irritate me.
“Not a loser,” I argue. “I get girls.”
“Twitter pussy!” he squawks as I unzip the carrier and let him crawl out.
How sad is it that my damn bird is well aware of my preferences for getting laid?
“Ridiculous,” I hiss as I try to ignore the verbal assault and fire up my systems.
I’m not going to waste my breath explaining to an animal that I don’t have time to date. Setting the parameters for online hookups work for me, and there’s no sense in changing something that works.
“You made me forget that damn box.” Puff Daddy heads to his food bowl rather than arguing with the blame I’m throwing his way.