Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
“Nope.” I shook my head, struggling, with all my drinks and foodstuffs, to open the door. “No way. I’m paying you back.”
“Hey,” he called when I jumped out.
I looked back to him.
“What’s your name?”
“Kelly Garrett,” I lied, slammed the door with my foot and turned to Tweety, putting Cap and Mace and Donald Walken/Paul Nicholson in the dark forest I never visited surrounding my Citadel of Denial.
Not looking back, I got in my car, and even though the Denali didn’t move, I pulled out and drove away.
THREE
MARCONI UNION
While snarfing down my burger and sipping my malt, I googled Nightingale Investigations and Security.
And discovered how I knew Kai Mason.
He was Stella Gunn’s husband. That being Stella Gun, lead singer and guitarist of the Blue Moon Gypsies, award-winning, multi-platinum, cool-as-all-hell rock band. I’d seen him in dozens of pictures by her side when she went to award ceremonies and such.
He was also a celebrity in his own right, being a top-notch snowboarder who turned into an equally successful surfer.
This somehow segued into him being the owner of the most sought-after celebrity security firm in LA, providing security for such stars as Viola Remington, Dee-Amond and Imogen Swan.
However, recently, his business, MTS Security of LA, had merged with Nightingale Investigations of Denver, whereupon NI had become NI&S, and as Mace told me, they’d expanded to open an office in the Valley of the Sun.
He and Stella had some book written about them, so I bought the eBook but left it and clicked through all the stuff about Nightingale Investigations.
The guy who owned it, Liam Nightingale, also had a book written about him. But that was probably the least fascinating thing about him, his firm and his superhero-esque crew.
I mean, they made the Denver news more than the Hemsworth brothers made international. And an image search showed me Nightingale’s crew made those Aussie boys look just plain.
I know, it sounded crazy, but it was all kinds of true.
I guessed they were going to go with the same hiring strategy down here in Phoenix, if Cap and Mace were anything to go by.
I sucked the last dregs of the malt down, even if I was lamenting my addition of the tots. My belly was so full (who was I kidding, the malt was enough, I shouldn’t have ordered the burger either) and headed to my tiny bathroom to run a bath.
My Citadel was under attack. The parapets were shaking. I should have known, with what happened that night, even a vanilla malt wasn’t going to be able to tame the onslaught.
I needed a bath bomb, bubbles, a face mask and some candles.
Moving through my apartment, which was also tiny (living room up front, bar beyond which was a U-shaped kitchen, hall with bath to one side, laundry closet to the other, lone bedroom at the back), I sorted that all out.
Cueing up Marconi Union’s “Weightless” on my Bluetooth speaker, I got in the bath, spread the sheet mask on my face and sat back in the warm water, the foam moving in to cocoon me.
I should have known it wasn’t going to work.
And it didn’t.
Five minutes in, I was curled into a ball, face shoved against my knees, shoulders heaving, the name Macy, Macy, Macy, Macy, Macy echoing in my head.
I huddled in my Citadel as the arrows flew and the cannons boomed, and it took me a while to get there. To be able to do what my counselor taught me to do, one of many things I tried, the only thing that worked (sometimes).
I anchored myself where I was. I felt the warm water. Listened to the music. Smelled my tobacco cedarwood candles. Felt the cool mask still clinging to my face.
And I reminded myself I was Rachel “Raye” Armstrong, with emphasis on the “strong.”
I’d navigated the trauma and made it here to this place.
And I was safe.
Now.
In my bath.
But also, in my life.
Alive. Breathing.
I had friends. I had a job I liked.
I had a life.
No, I’d made a life.
And I was living it.
I was healthy. I had cute clothes. I worked hard to give myself a little extra.
I was okay.
No again.
I was good.
I was happy.
“Okay,” I whispered to my knees, laid back again, smoothed the mask on my face, gently pressing it into my skin, and closed my eyes.
I needed a gummie and rest. I had a shift tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Today was done.
And I had tomorrow.
I peeled the mask off, massaged the serum into my skin, got out of the bath, pulled the stopper, dried off, lotioned up, put on my silky green robe with the big pink flowers that hit my knees and tied the belt tight.
Then I headed out of my bathroom toward the back of my tiny apartment and my bedroom.
I got one step into my bedroom and let out a little scream.