“Okay, see, I’m calm. I’m not moving. Will you call him now?” she asked.
Ron gave her a sickly sweet smile. “Yes, boss lady.” He tapped the touchscreen on his cell phone.
Abigail zoned out Ron as she shifted her frazzled nerves to the three ledgers spread out on the desk. Thomas O’Reilly had been her business advisor for over two years. And for over two years, she hadn’t been able to understand the jargon coming out of his mouth. Somehow she seemed to always have money to purchase new set supplies and catering for the performers, but he never quite knew how to make her understand the complicated world of her finances. She was starting to question if he understood it himself.
The taxes were paid, and the performers were compensated. She guessed that was enough.
What had started as a necessity for her personal needs had grown into a lucrative, successful empire.
“Come by whenever you can,” Ron said before shoving the phone back into his pocket.
“Well? Well, what did he say? Tell me!”
Ron’s husky laugh always slowed the frantic cadence of her heart. “God, you’re so impatient. He’s caught in traffic.”
Abigail pressed her brows tight. “What? I thought he was in the parking lot.”
“He is. He sounds nervous. Give him a minute. He’s a thinker. He’s turned down every other guy who’s asked him to step into the ring at the gym. Why he took me up on the offer still baffles me.”
“Maybe he’s gay?”
“No way, every guy in there has tried to get a piece of him. He barely says two words to anybody. I’ve got his application stuff ready. If he works out, let me know before he leaves so I can set up his appointment with Dr. Johnston.”
Abigail scrolled the tiny arrow on the computer to the mail tab and double clicked. “He kind of sounds like a jerk. He’s probably one of those gym rats who only likes skinny girls. Oh God, Ron, what if he does only like skinny girls? The client asked for Sasha, and she’s got hips on her. Are you sure about him?”
“I’m sure. And, you’ve got to get over this skinny girl, fat girl dilemma you’ve got going on, seriously. Besides, he was really cool once he started talking to me. We’ve sparred a couple of times, and now he talks more. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not going to get all Dr. Phil, but at least he’ll make eye contact now. He’s just kind of shy, I guess.”
“Shy or not, I need him. Hopefully, he won’t be too bashful to get naked. He needs to get his ass up here.”
“Just stay busy until I bring him in. Don’t get all nervous. Keep your voice calm, and don’t do that fidgety thing with your hands.”
“But, what if—”
“What if, nothing. Keep calm, and everything will go fine. Do you want another cup of coffee?”
She loved it when he played secretary. “Yes, Ms. Carlone, and you can get your notepad and take a letter for me.” It was her turn to laugh. She needed it.
The last she saw of Ron was his tight butt leaving her office. “Bitch” trailed behind it.
She turned to the computer screen. Opening her e-mail had always been a fun adventure, until four months ago. The number six designated the number of letters in her personal box and fifty-six in her business one. “Jeez, people. Give me a minute to catch my breath, you little horny toads.” She smiled, knowing the people on the other end of those e-mails were placing orders, asking for advice, and giving feedback on their recent purchases. Many customers returned to place more orders, creating a hectic schedule for her already overworked performers.
Abigail was proud of what she’d created. Her parents were giddy that she’d started up a successful “online video rental company.” When her mother asked if she could subscribe to the service, Abigail swallowed and politely told her that they didn’t carry the classics she knew her mother enjoyed. She wasn’t about to look her mother in the face and tell her the videos she sold were created from the personal fantasies of her clients. Her prudish mother would have tossed her manicured nails in the air and yelled for Abigail’s father to get her pills out of her new handbag.
Her family had been placed on a need-to-know basis. Heck, everyone had been, and at this point, there was less and less they needed to know. The last thing she wanted to do was confess about the events that led to that horrible night. She didn’t want everyone to be in danger.
Abigail chipped at a piece of pink fingernail polish. It would be nice to go to dinner from time to time, to be able to go to the grocery store without having a panic attack. She was tired of asking Ron to grab a carton of eggs or a gallon of milk for her. It was her time, without the black eyes and broken arm, to be able to enjoy life. Justin Parker could burn in hell.