Total pages in book: 211
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
Yes, Eric just acted like that bastard label he too readily owns, but considering the power play at hand, I can’t say I blame him. I don’t have his trust. He doesn’t quite have mine, but after talking to Gigi, I don’t know if it matters. She’s right. We’re better off in Eric’s hands than Isaac’s. Even if I lose my trust, which at this point feels pretty gone anyway, at least I leave this place without liability, and so does my mother.
I hope.
I don’t know.
Eric could burn us, but I just don’t feel like he will. Not unless he feels that we’re trying to burn him. I think that’s exactly what he thinks. He thinks I fucked him to fuck him. I want to scream with this idea. I want to go right back down those stairs and shake him and quite possibly get naked with him. How can I want to be naked with a man who basically accused me of being a whore? Okay, that’s extreme. He didn’t exactly say that. I’m exaggerating and I don’t usually exaggerate, but he’s making me crazy. And confused. I’ve always been confused about that man, or at least, emotionally. My body feels no confusion. It just wants to feel him close.
The intercom on my desk buzzes and the receptionist announces, “Jim Sims from the union is on the line for Isaac, but he told me to give the call to you.”
Jim Sims, who would do about anything for me if I got naked with him, which is exactly why I don’t deal with him. Isaac knows this. He doesn’t care, and this isn’t even about Eric, considering this was my assignment before he knew Eric was here. It’s about me asking too many questions and making too many demands for answers. Which wouldn’t be a problem if Isaac wasn’t hiding something.
I pick-up the line. “Jim.”
“I hear you’re lead on the upcoming labor relations topics.”
“I hear that as well. I was just about to catch up on the file before tomorrow’s meeting.”
“Yes, well, we both know bathroom preferences are below your pay grade. I suspect your brother hoped you’d distract me and calm me the fuck down on some of the bigger financial issues.”
“What issues?”
“A topic better discussed in person. Let’s meet.”
Of course he wants to meet, and to be all touchy-feely while he’s at it. I glance at my clock. It’s eleven. “How about three o’clock at your office? That gives me time to get up to speed.”
“How about happy hour, at the wine bar up your direction in Cherry Creek? You still live in Cherry Creek, right?”
How does this man know where I live? “Yes,” I say. “I’m still up that direction.”
“Good. These matters are easier to stomach when diluted by wine and you won’t have far to travel after we indulge.”
“I’m not good with wine,” I say. “I need a clear head today and tomorrow. Let’s stick with the coffee.”
He’s silent a few beats and then says, “Then we’ll do coffee at five. I have meetings this afternoon.”
We disconnect and I pull up my email to find an email from Isaac titled “Union” that I skip right on past when I see one from EricB@kingstonmotors.com. My heart thunders in my chest and I click on the message to read: My new address, just to make my presence official.
My forehead knits at the “B” that most certainly stands for “Bastard” and I type: Did you choose that email address? And then hit send.
His reply is instant: I never let anyone else make my decisions. You shouldn’t either.
I ignore his obvious reference to my reasons for staying with Kingston for six years and type: Did you really make it Eric B, for bastard?
He replies with: There’s another Eric in accounting. I didn’t want anyone to get confused. Here’s my phone number. Use it. Often. 212-415-2333.
I grab my phone and compare the number to the one I got from his business card, and it matches. I send him a text: Now you have my number.
He replies with: I already had it, princess.
I stare at that message, not sure if we’re talking about phone numbers or that conversation downstairs about me fucking him to get him here. I suddenly don’t know if I should be angry or not, thus I have no idea how to reply. Yes, I do. I type: And I already had your number as well, BASTARD. I stare at the message and erase the BASTARD. I replace it with ERIC. He doesn’t get to hide behind the bastard persona with me. He gets to own every asshole moment.
I pull up my email and click on the entry from Isaac to read: Make the union happy. The last thing we need in the press right now is a union scandal.