Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 60309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
While I head downstairs, I sniff under my armpits.
The only odor I smell is Greatness with a capital G. Smiling, I’m about to check out the kitchen when I hear rustling in the parlor…and music.
Piano.
My lips flatline, and I reroute my steps to check on my client. Peeking into the parlor, I find Charlie hunched over a piano, his fingers dragging dully over the keys. Like it’s intuition and boredom that guides his hands there.
His sandy-brown hair is a tousled mess. He even pulls at the strands now, and when he sees me watching, he takes this sharp, shallow breath. Purple tint is shadowed under his eyes.
He’s not sleeping well. He’s been struggling staying cooped up with no exit in sight. That much has been clear to me.
Seriousness strains my muscles. “Can I get you anything?”
“Out.” He intakes another tensed breath. “Nothing you can give me.” He swings his feet over the piano bench and stands up. “I’m stuck. Perpetually.” The haunted look he wears is enough to send a trigger of alarm through my spine.
Nothing good is going to happen the longer Charlie Cobalt is stuck inside a house that he can’t escape. He paces.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
He’s my client. He’s the twenty-one-year-old Cobalt that I spend day-in, day-out with, and to help him avoid reaching a breaking point is the strategy.
I slip further into the room and examine the bookshelf. “You read this one yet?” I pluck out To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf.
“Twice.” Tugging at his hair again, he eyes the window and the snowy white landscape. Tugging again, he comes up to me. “What’s your favorite?”
“On this shelf…” I crouch down to scan more of the hardback spines. “…probably this one.” I pull out Moby-Dick by Herman Melville.
“Why?” Charlie wonders, more interested. He takes the book from me, but I can tell he’s already read the pages. He barely thumbs through them. Just waits to see why I’ve enjoyed the novel.
I’m about to respond when a head pops into the parlor.
Donnelly nods to me. “Boss just called a meeting. Seems urgent.”
To my client, I say quickly, “I’ll see you later. Take care of yourself, Charlie.”
He nods and tucks the book underneath his arm.
I’m not a buddy-guard. I shouldn’t be having book clubs with my client, but I’m actually interested to hear what he thinks of Moby-Dick and we have all the time to kill here.
Walking to the kitchen with Donnelly for the emergency security meeting, he quips, “Daddy Oscar, checking on his children.”
I hate being called daddy. Donnelly laughs at my soured face, and I retort, “I might be the oldest here, but that just means I’m the wisest motherfucker.”
“Okay, Grandpop.”
We both laugh until we take our seats around the circular breakfast table, the kitchen drafty and cold. Seventeen people have been living in this house. Eight are bodyguards. Two are my family. One is my client.
Akara is MIA right now. At the table, I count Donnelly, my handsome ass, Thatcher, Redford, Quinn, O’Malley, and Tony. We’re waiting for the SFO lead. Severity hangs over everyone, and I glance back in the direction to where I left Charlie.
He can’t handle being in one place for this long.
Before the meeting begins, we all talk about breakfast and rations and end up splitting a single bowl of oatmeal.
Eight ways.
I try to savor every morsel of mushy shitness.
When Akara enters the kitchen, everyone’s done eating but him. He takes the final seat, sets the sat-phone on the table, and unzips a wet jacket. “Here’s the deal, guys. The village’s inn is a ten-hour hike on foot, and the owner said she has enough provisions to house six people if we can make it there.”
Six people are getting the hell out of here.
As the meeting goes on, I pay attention to logistics, and I have a say in who ends up on the hike.
Charlie.
Charlie has to leave.
He needs out today. Not tomorrow, not weeks from now. Today. But I’ll take whatever timeline Akara is offering. If he wants me to join Charlie on the trek, then Joana has to come with us. I’m not leaving my sister. She’s attached to me this trip.
So I’m not shocked when he chooses Farrow and Thatcher to accompany Charlie, Luna, Beckett, and Sulli.
I trust Farrow and Thatcher will take care of my client, even if Charlie is a royal handful.
I can’t leave Jo. She just said that she doesn’t regret coming on the trip because she’s with me and Quinn. I can’t abandon her for Charlie.
Once the meeting ends, we’re all more tensed. We just itemized and prioritized clients and friends based on who’s nearing a break down.
I head into the living room with a trail of bodyguards, and a tall, sculpted Jack Highland catches my eye and instantly fills my entire gaze. Like a cliché moth to a flame.