Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“I’m aware. I’ll . . . handle it. And I’ll personally deliver her to you within the hour.”
He exhales. “I appreciate that, sir. But I’m afraid if this happens again, we’re going to have to take this to the expulsion committee.”
“I can assure you it won’t come to that.” My jaw tightens. I can’t assure him of anything because the truth is, four months in I’ve yet to decode Scarlett’s language, unlock her trust, or earn her respect so she’ll listen to me once in a damn while. I can command an entire room of adults with a single look, but putting the fear of God into my brother’s daughter is an impossible skill to master. It’s a daily battle, and so far she’s winning—though I’d never tell her that. “I’ll make sure of it. Thank you for the call. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to locate my niece.”
I end the call and ring Scarlett—getting her voice mail immediately.
My vision blurs red until I get my shit together.
When I pull up the tracking app, it appears she’s currently in Hell’s Kitchen—somewhere along Tenth Avenue. And that’s assuming she didn’t leave her phone on a bus bench to throw me off; it wouldn’t be the first time. I once tracked her to a bodega in Little Italy, only to find it was some thirteen-year-old punk who had grabbed what he claimed was an abandoned phone off a newspaper rack. Pretty sure he pissed himself when he saw me walking toward him.
Heading downstairs, I pull up my email and forward Elle Napier’s message to her editor along with direct instructions to deal with it immediately, and then I hail the first Yellow Cab I see.
Scarlett might be in Hell’s Kitchen, but she’s yet to experience the hellish inferno coming her way.
CHAPTER FOUR
ELLE
“You trying to burn off breakfast or what?” Indie points her cereal spoon in my direction, her mouth half-full of soggy apple-cinnamon Cheerios. “You’ve been pacing for, like, an hour.”
It hasn’t been an hour—more like a solid fifteen, twenty minutes.
“I quit my job.” I stop patrolling the space by the kitchen island and cover my eyes, peering her way through my fingers. “Twenty minutes ago. I sent the email. It’s over. I quit.”
My finger shook as I pressed send on that email to West . . . and it hasn’t stopped shaking since.
“Excuse me, ma’am, you what?” Her spoon lands against the bowl with a loud clink. “You realize this apartment is six grand a month and we just renewed our lease a few months ago . . . right?”
“I have savings. I’ve done the math. It’s all good.”
At least, for the next eight or nine months it’ll all be good. If I don’t manage to find a similar-paying job by then, I’ll be packing my entire life into a couple of suitcases and hitching a ride back home to Louisiana to live with my parents. And while I love them dearly, my mother and I are complete opposites, and she’s a small-doses kind of person. No good can come from the two of us under the same roof at this point in my life.
But one thing at a time . . .
“I know you were in a weird place this morning with the deadline and everything, but that’s a little drastic, don’t you think?” she asks. “Just quitting like that?”
I shrug and begin to pace again. Standing still for too long makes my skin hum with anxiety, and moving is the only way to make it stop.
I’m starting to answer her when my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I slide it out to find a call from Tom waiting for me.
“It’s my boss,” I say before correcting myself. “My former boss. My editor. It’s . . . Tom.”
It rings twice more, then again.
“You going to take it, or are you just going to stare at it a little longer?” Indie asks.
“Hey, Tom.” I manage a simple greeting despite my mouth turning to cotton. “What’s up?”
“What . . . did . . . you . . . do?” When his words are slow, unrushed, and unminced—never a good sign. “Please tell me this is an extremely belated April Fools’ joke and that you are not committing career suicide?”
“I’m sorry. I made the decision a few hours ago. I would’ve called you, but then you would’ve talked me out of it, and—”
“Of course I would’ve talked you out of it,” he all but shouts into the receiver. “I don’t understand, Elle. I really don’t. You have no idea what you just did. And”—he lowers his voice—“Maxwell sent me your email and told me to—and I quote—‘deal with it immediately.’ What the hell does that mean? Does he want me to have HR draft up the termination paperwork, or does he want me to talk you out of it? And what do we do with the article you sent? We go to print in three days, and we can’t use that.”