Nervous.
A navy business suit, white shirt, black laptop bag, and shiny dark stilettos await me, laid out on the bed. There’s a small white box to the left. Curious, I pick it up and open the lid. A gold pendant is nestled inside. It’s a locket. But when did he get it? Better still, why?
“You can’t buy me, Marcus,” I mutter, confused. After dressing and placing each foot into the designer shoes that were chosen for me, I huff before grabbing at the strap of the bag and attempting to sling it over my shoulder. It’s heavier than I first thought, and, in the nick of time, I prevent it from falling to the floor.
What’s in here?
“Are you ready?” Marcus asks in a firm tone from outside the bedroom door.
“Yep.”
The door opens, and he walks in. A navy tie is in place and tucked neatly into his jacket, which is fastened by one button. The clean smell wafting from his skin is alluring.
He glances down at the bed and then back at me. “Did you not like your gift?”
“It’s lovely.”
“Well, you should be wearing it. Here.” Picking up the box, he moves behind me. The chain is lowered over my face until it sits at the nape of my neck. Steady hands fasten the clasp in place. “Show me.”
I do.
His lips curl upwards, pleased. “After you, Miss McMillian.” He shifts to the left and instructs me to pass.
My heart gallops and, even though we don’t touch, my body responds to his presence.
We walk by each other’s side out the front door. Grady waits in a suit identical to what he wore yesterday. As if on autopilot, he comes to my side to offer assistance.
“Ready?” Marcus says, his voice sounding formal.
“I think I am.”
“Good. We’re running late.”
Of course we are. Running late should be my middle name.
TWENTY
Punishment
I barely see Marcus the entire morning. The building here has a similar layout to the one back home. Glass exterior, same high countertop at reception as Asher’s, only here it’s manned by Trinity, and she’s not nice like Asher, nor uplifting. She looks like she’s sucked a lemon—sour bitch.
For the majority of my morning, I’m left to my own devices, stuck in a small room, no bigger than a cubicle. A single desk holding a cordless phone, laptop, and voice recorder pretty much fills the entire space, and then there’s me. The walls are white and there’s not even a window. With no décor, it resembles a prison cell.
I’ve limited interaction with anyone apart from a few faces smiling warily at me on my way to the bathroom. I guess I’m as foreign here as an alien sent from Mars. Why am I being treated like an outcast? Where the hell is Marcus? Maybe he’s mad, and this little prison cell is my punishment. I would’ve much preferred a spanking for my tardy effort at reading the binder pre-Sydney than this shit. But then he hit on me? He’s so confusing. So hot then cold.
After devouring as much of the case information as I can, I tap my pen against the desk, thinking back over yesterday and how very bizarre it was. I kind of wish I went home to the coast when I had the chance.
I’m confused.
I’m overwhelmed.
My emotions and thought patterns are all over the shop, and they have been for a long time. I don’t even know how to act like a rational person anymore. When will I stop punishing myself for the things I … nobody, can change? For God sake, a little girl died. In a horrific way, and I’m acting like my world is ending, when it’s not. I’m alive. When I get back to the Coast, I need to get my shit together.
“Miss McMillian.” The door opens and an older lady with greying hair, maybe in her late fifties, early sixties, stands with a brown paper bag and a bottle of water in hand. “Are you hungry? It’s lunchtime.” Her tone is welcoming.
Finally, someone nice. “Please.” I drop the pen and, stand. I tower over her. She’s definitely exceptionally short.
“Cup of tea, Miss McMillian?”
“No!” I say brusquely. “Sorry, no, thank you. Oh, and it’s Abigail, just Abigail.” Tea is definitely off-limits, which sucks because I could use a caffeine hit and fast.
“I have some instructions for you. Can you please activate the email account attached to the laptop you were given and create a password? The address is [email protected].”
“Sorry, let me just write that down. Again, please?” I ask, sliding a piece of paper across the small space left on the desk.
“It’s [email protected].”
“I’ll do it now, thank you.”
“Enjoy your lunch.”
“Will do. Sorry, what was your name?”
She smiles sweetly. “Kelly.”
“Nice to meet you, Kelly.”
“You too. I’ll let you get back to your work.” `
I nod.
The door closes gently as I spy into the brown paper bag she put on my desk.
Unwrapping tissue paper, I soon discover an egg, lettuce, and tomato sandwich awaits me. I laugh so hard. I’m guessing my time in prison has increased my level of insanity. Well, Marcus, this doesn’t appear coincidental, that’s for sure. He’s playing games with me and I don’t think I like it.
The sandwich is devoured in two-point-three seconds. Well, it feels that way—I was ravenous. Opening up the email account, I type in the address and select a password. Bellagirl. It’s denied, and a message states it must have at least one numeral, so I type Bellag1rl. It’s accepted. The computer dings immediately.
From: Marcus Klein
Subject: Hope your morning has been pleasant?
Date: 8th of November 2012 11:58am
To: Abigail McMillian
Abigail,
Did you receive the checklist this morning? How far down the list are you?
Marcus Klein
Partner
Sims, General, and Klein.
“You could have said hello, jerk … Shit! How far am I into the checklist?” I locate the piece of paper that was left on the desk when I entered this morning and note I’m halfway through. Well, he has to be happy with that, I’m sure. Maybe I shouldn’t tell him. He’s being an arse, after all. If he wants to give me the silent treatment, well, two can play games, douche. Hell, what’s the worst thing that’s going to happen? I get sent home? Hallelujah!
Brrring … brrring … brring
The loud and irritating sound of the phone beside me stops once the handset is in my hand.
“Hello?”
“Hello.”
“How are you?” More like who are you? And what do you want?
“Is this Sims, General, and Klein?”
“The very one.”
“May I ask who I’m speaking to?”
“You may.”
“Well, who is this?”
“Oh, sorry. Abigail.”
“Do you think you should state that and the company name when you’re answering the phone?”
“Probably. Who is this?”
“Abigail, it’s Asher. You know, for a teacher in business, you have poor phone skills.”
Asher, my new friend, maybe you can help. “Sorry, I’m just in the middle of something.”