Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
You could hear a pin drop as Marcus, Tony, George, and Sarah wait to hear what Trent says. There is some serious bated breath going on here, and Trent’s pause is so long, it’s doing a mighty good impression of me and my penchant for fucking around and losing track of time.
“You’re right,” he finally says, and I faint.
Okay, I don’t really faint, but I could have if I ever waited long enough to eat to let my blood sugar get low.
As it is, I just perform a super slow blink.
“Great.”
And the day moves on from there.
Trent isn’t barking orders. He remains direct and to the point, but calm.
George doesn’t look like he’s one second away from getting in his truck and driving away and never coming back.
Even Sarah smiles. Actually smiles with teeth and all.
It’s like we’re all just one big happy, working family. Sunshine and rainbows and fucking leprechauns with pots of gold show up to the hotel construction site and shit.
And there’s actually a glimmer of hope blooming inside my chest.
Maybe there’s been a change in Trent’s normally abrasive tune?
Fingers and toes and pretty much everything crossed that he sticks with the new music.
Basically, it’s all gravy, baby.
For all of three hours.
Until the familiar asshole-voice reaches my ears.
“George!” he shouts, and I look up from the linen samples I’m currently rummaging through and find our poor contractor in the cross hairs…again.
“Sir?”
“Why didn’t I know about the delayed deliveries for the indoor pool and spa?” Mr. Boss questions, and I swear to God, a vein makes itself known on his forehead and waves to everyone. All five fingers and an open palm. Hell, even his little veiny fingernails are painted blue.
George is terrified. “I didn’t know they were delayed, sir.”
Oh no.
“You’re the contractor on this job, and you didn’t know about delayed shipments?”
“I-I’m sorry, sir,” he stutters out in response. “I’ve been assisting Dick and Beaver with the elevator installations since six this morning.”
Trent shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, and continues to channel his rediscovered rage toward George and the construction team.
The sunshine disappears. The rainbows fade away. Even the leprechauns pack up their shit and hightail it the fuck out of here.
So much for hope.
And I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying something snarky and sarcastic and getting-fired-kind-of-risky so hard I probably draw blood.
God, it’s more apparent now than ever that something with Mr. Asshole Boss has to change.
And I think I have just the idea what to do about it.
The AT&T store is busy but manageable as I step inside during my lunch hour.
As a loyal Verizon customer, I’ve stepped outside of bounds by coming here, but clandestine acts sometimes call for desperate measures. Trent surely knows how to buy off the people at Verizon into giving him the name and information of the woman on camera in their store when they match my ID to my existing account.
Or something like that. I don’t know the exact details, but deciding to go to another carrier seemed imperative at the time.
“Can I help you?” the young man behind the counter—Henry, if his name tag is anything to go by—greets me, approaching me with his iPad to check me in.
I’m immediately defensive, declaring, “No names.”
He doesn’t understand, but I wouldn’t expect him to. We’re in the middle of the mall, not a top-level-clearance CIA operation.
Still, my mission is already in motion, and my behavior can’t be stopped. I’m going to get some advice to Trent Turner on how to be a better boss and keep my job safe at the same time, one way or another.
“I need a burner phone. Untraceable. I have cash.”
Henry’s eyebrows shoot up, and I nod.
“This is serious business, Henry. Can you help me, or do I need to take my business next door to Sprint?”
Henry, the chap, comes over to the dark side with surprisingly little persuasion.
“No way, ma’am,” he affirms. “You’ve come to the right place.”
“Fantastic,” I say with a secret smile and give my new AT&T pal a pat to his polo-covered shoulder. “I have a feeling you and I are going to be great friends.”
Trent
For the past week and a half or so, I’ve been getting texts from an unknown number with ridiculous, almost uninterpretable advice.
Never walk by a pigeon coop with an owl in your pocket.
Don’t shit on your own doorstep.
If you swim with a friend, your chances of getting eaten by a shark go down by 50%.
There is no angry way to say bubbles.
Real bear hugs are usually fatal.
Don’t sweat the petty things, and don’t pet the sweaty things.
In case of fire, use the stairs.
And my personal favorite came straight from The Godfather. Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.
At first, I reacted badly. I honestly thought Cap had subscribed me to some fucking text service as a stupid joke. But when the messages kept coming—mostly, at inopportune times while I was busy trying to get an entire hotel off the ground—I kind of lost it. At one point, I even channeled Liam Neeson.