I almost smile, but then the situation hits me again and I take a deep breath.
“I'm not sure if this is a problem or not,” I start, glancing over at a knock on the bathroom door. “I'm in here!” I call, and then stand up to turn the sink on as a sound barrier. “But there were two FBI agents at my dad's office, inquiring about Brent. I guess they wanted to talk to me, but I just missed them. They're on their way to see Sully.”
There's a long pause as I wait for Royal to respond.
“I already called him and told him to keep his mouth shut,” I add, and there's a small, tired sigh from that end of the line.
“Alright. I suppose there isn't much to be done about it until we can figure out exactly what it is that they want.” There's another pause, pregnant and heavy with awkwardness and blurry boundaries. I can tell Royal wants to ask me something else. “Once they're done there, find out what that is for me, yeah? Maybe it's nothing … maybe it's something.”
I nod, realize he's not looking at me, and tell him, “sure. I'll call him back in a bit. For now I think I'm gonna get out of here, keep playing the sick card, and grab something to eat. How's your … your business going?”
There's a deep, throaty chuckle from Royal's end of the line.
“I'll tell you all about it later. Shouldn't be too much longer.” The sound of male voices rises through the speaker, cutting Royal off for a brief moment. “Glad to see you got your mobile back. I'll call you when I'm done here, and I'll remake that pesto we never got to eat.” There's a vicious grin in his voice that does wonders to tangle up my already scrambled insides. I smile against the phone.
“See you soon.” It feels like there's something else I should say to end this call, a pet name maybe or even an … I love you? But it's too soon, so I clamp down on that and end the call before things can get awkward. “I need a spa day,” I groan, heading out of the bathroom to grab a few things from my desk.
As soon as I've got my laptop bag in hand, I sneak a glance over the banister and find that Kailey's stepped away from her desk. Using that moment to make my escape, I hit the stairs as quick as I can and head outside to find the clouds parting and weak sunlight basking the front of the building in a brisk bright glow.
Across the parking lot, Mug sits on his bike, phone in his hands, thumbs sliding across the screen. There's a girl standing next to him, leaning over the handlebars and displaying an inordinately large amount of cleavage. Jesus, these bikers and their boobs. Mug pauses just long enough to nod his chin briefly and acknowledge me before turning his head over to the girl again.
I'm not two steps out the door when I hear the sound of heels moving across the sidewalk towards me. Considering there's nothing around that side of the building but scraggly bushes and a rocky incline towards the sea, I glance that way, surprised to find the girl from the compound—Mia—and a small gaggle of her friends.
Fuck.
That's my word of the day today. I try not to use it too often, not because I'm a prude, just simply because the F-word doesn't sit well in politics, but … fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Can I help you?” I ask, lifting my chin up as I survey Mia and her annoyingly perfect complexion. In the sudden afternoon sunlight, she looks a little harsh, all painted up like that, but what do I know about makeup? All I've ever done is try to blend in, cover up, put just enough effort in that I'm unremarkable. Sexiness, good looks—in politics, those are almost dirty words. It's hard enough for a woman to infiltrate a boys' club, so as silly as I find the whole dance, I follow the steps to a T.
The girls behind and to the right of Mia are just as pretty, just as flashy, in leather and halters and heels. It's kind of funny, seeing them standing there in formation like that, like some sort of biker thug Mean Girls reboot.
Well, I mean, it would be funny if it wasn't for the murderous look on Mia's pretty face.
She flips a shiny sheet of brunette hair over one shoulder, leaving nothing but the purple streak hanging in front of her face as she looks me over like I disgust her, dark eyes hard and unyielding. A quick glance over my shoulder shows Mug still embroiled in his conversation with the girl, a perfect match to the rest of the ones standing in front of me. He even looks up, spots us standing there together and makes a face. The blonde in front of him laughs loudly and his attention whips back down to her.
He must not think these girls are a threat to me.
He's dead wrong.
“Help me?” Mia asks with a harsh, broken laugh. I almost feel sorry for her in that moment, standing outside my father's office in a tight red sleeveless shirt, dark denim painted down her long, lean legs. She's gorgeous, flawless really—on the outside. On the inside, I can see that she's broken and hurting. Her laugh tells me all that and more. Mia, this girl with tattoos from shoulder to wrist, she's searching for an outlet for her pain.